


Life of Suicide

by ShineyWhiskey



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-04-21 16:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShineyWhiskey/pseuds/ShineyWhiskey
Summary: A series of one-shots detailing how the members of the Suicide Squad became criminals.Harley Quinn was a doctor.El Diablo was a gang member.Killer Croc was homeless.Katana was married with two daughters.Captain Boomerang never knew his father.June just wants to be free.Rick Flag made a promise he couldn't keep.Deadshot was torn between two lives - assassin and father.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Harley Quinn - Stuffed Kitten

**Author's Note:**

> The movie is so vague about where all these characters come from and what motivates them, so I thought I would make up my own. I haven't read the comics; so most of this really comes from my imagination and minimal research.

Dr. Quinzel nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. She carefully inspected her reflection in the two-way mirror situated across the room. She had insisted on borrowing a white lab coat from one of the senior doctors, convincing them that this particular patient wouldn’t take well to being treated by an intern. Dark shadows stood out under her eyes from the hours she spent last night reading and re-reading the patient’s file. She had found herself drowning in the words, unable to escape from the insights into the patient’s psyche. It had taken her two months of pleading with her mentor before she had been handed this case file, and another few weeks before they had granted her an interview with the patient.

The first time she had seen him had been an accident. She had heard about him before: from whispered rumours and newspaper articles. But she had never seen him. Since his incarceration, they’d been keeping his location under wraps, and the man himself in isolation. Meeting him had been an accident. One that changed her entire life. She had been escorting a schizophrenic patient to his cell when they had passed in the hallway.

Dr. Quinzel didn’t notice the tousled green hair or the manacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles or the dirty straight jacket. She didn’t notice the wary way the guards on either side held him, as if afraid to stand too close. What Dr. Quinzel saw was the way he walked down the corridor as though he ruled the asylum, as though the guards at his side were his personal entourage. She saw the gleam in his eyes that bespoke intelligence far greater than anyone she had ever met. She saw something else there, quietly hidden. Something she never expected to see in this man: pain. His soul was in pain. Dr. Quinzel found herself pulled towards him by some unspoken chemistry, and when his eyes met hers, her skin tingled with anticipation. She found herself frozen in place, fear and some other unidentifiable emotion washing over her. The patient passed, and Dr. Quinzel was finally able to catch her breath.

And so, Dr. Quinzel found herself sitting on a thin plastic chair, waiting for the Joker to arrive. She took a quick swig from the coffee cup in front of her and checked her bun in the mirror one last time as the door swung open. Dr. Quinzel kept her eyes on the case file in front of her as the patient sat down across the table. For a moment, she was afraid to look up, afraid that she’d see the psychotic killer that she’d read about rather than the intelligent man she’d seen in that chance encounter.

“Dr. Harleen Quinzel.” His voice had an odd drawl to it, the edges of his voice tinged with barely contained madness. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

Dr. Quinzel’s eyes rose, following the straight jacket up past the metal teeth to his brilliant blue eyes. The Joker’s head was cocked, his eyes open and intense. She could see the emotions whirling behind them. For the first time in her life, Dr. Quinzel felt like she could see into someone else’s soul, without it being hidden by schemes or manipulation. She could see every emotion written in the man’s eyes, even if she didn’t understand them.

“I…um…” she stuttered. “Mr. J, I’ll be your psychiatrist for the next little while. It was my understanding that you weren’t getting very far with your past therapists. Perhaps you could tell me why?”

He chuckled, an eerie series of breaths that lasted just a little too long. “For starters, they weren’t anywhere as delicious as you. Just look at that creamy skin of yours…mmmhmm…”

Dr. Quinzel adjusted her glasses, conscious of the heat rising to her cheeks. “I have the notes from your past sessions, but I thought it’d be best if we got to know each other a little first.”

The Joker blinked sleepily, boredom slowly seeping in his face.

“Please, Mr. J. I know it must be hard for you to believe, but I do want to help you. I know you’re in pain. Please, just let me help you. Could you tell me a story from your past? Something…nice. Something that makes you smile when you think of it?”

She could see the cogs whirring behind his eyes as he thought through her words. 

“What makes the Joker smile?” He leaned forward and Dr. Quinzel found herself scooting closer in response.

“Carnage,” he whispered, a manic grin spreading across his face. “Blood, misery, chaos, toys.”

“Toys?”

“A kitten.” He chuckled in that eerie way again, sending shivers down Dr. Quinzel’s spine. “A little stuffed kitten.”

Dr. Quinzel couldn’t help a smile tug at the corner of her lips as she imagined a little boy with green hair sitting on the floor of his mother’s parlour, playing with a cute stuffed kitten.

“Perhaps you could fetch it for me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know how the foot-in-the-door technique works, Mr. J. I am a psychiatrist, after all.” Dr. Quinzel sighed, a small breath leaving her lips. “But I might just be able to get that for you. Something to help keep you smiling through the pain.”

* * *

Harley Quinn swung the baseball bat and it landed on the man’s arm, crushing bone. Her pigtails bounced happily as the man screamed in pain.

“My Puddin’ doesn’t like being short changed, y’know.” 

She swung the bat again, smashing the man’s fingers as he reached for the gun lying near him. He moaned and rolled over, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Harley leaned gracefully over him, bright teeth shining in the moonlight coming in through the warehouse windows. She placed the baseball bat under the man’s chin.

“Tonight’s date night,” she said. “It takes me a while to get ready and I don’t have much time left.”

Harley added pressure to the bat, pressing down on the man’s neck. He muttered something, coughing up blood.

“What? Didn’t hear that.”

Tears mixed with blood as the man spluttered, his fingers twitching weakly. “It’s by the waterfront, on the east side. I swear.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard.” Harley turned, pivoting lithely in her stilettos.

The man let out a ragged, relieved breath. Harley paused, one hand resting on her hip. Then she whipped around, the baseball bat striking against the man’s already broken arm. His scream echoed through the warehouse.

“Come on,” Harley Quinn giggled. “Just smile through the pain.”


	2. El Diablo - Burnt Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> El Diablo is taken into custody where he meets a man with mysterious tattoos.

Chato could feel the blood leaking from his back, the hot liquid sticky against his skin. He was lying face down, gravel digging into his chest. Gun shots shook the air and bullets rained around him. He could barely breathe and the pain in his chest grew sharper with each passing second. Pain radiated across his body, until he couldn’t even feel the dirty alleyway underneath him. Chato’s vision blurred, but he could still hear his men scream and fall around him, desperately firing at the armoured cops surrounding them.

They’d been caught in a sting. Someone had ratted them out, and the moment Chato found out who, he was going to burn the man alive. Or shoot him in the chest. Let the rat feel the excruciating pain he was enduring now.

“Well, look what we got here.”

It took him a moment to realize that the gun fire had stopped. The voice was tinny and distorted to his ears, but he would recognize it anywhere. A boot snuck under him and kicked him over, turning him on his back. Red flashed across vision as pain racked his body. When his vision cleared, Sergeant Abano was staring down at him, hefting a LAPD rifle at his face.

“Chato Santana.” He grinned. “Pieces of gang shit like you don’t even deserve to live. I should just leave you here to rot like you’ve done with all the people you’ve killed.” Sergeant Abano pulled his handgun and pressed it against Chato’s temple. “How many men have you held a gun against and known that you were going to be the last thing they ever saw, huh?”

Chato’s fingers twitched, inching towards a fallen gun. Sergeant Abano pressed his foot against Chato’s wound and he bellowed in pain. It hurt beyond all belief.

The Sergeant leaned so close that Chato could feel hot breath waft against his face. “What if this is the last thing _you_ see, huh? A dirty alleyway covered with your blood. But, unlike you scum; I’m one of the good guys. So you’re getting taken to a hospital and getting the best health care the federal system can provide, then I’m dumping your ass behind bars, Chato.”

With the last of his strength, Chato spat into the cop’s face.

“Oh, you son of a –”

The rifle butt made contact with Chato’s face, and everything went black.

When he woke up, his head was groggy. He could hear quiet muttering from the guard standing in the doorway, flirting with a pretty nurse. The hospital sheets felt itchy against his skin, but when he tried to move it off of him, he found that his wrists were handcuffed to the bed rails. His chest still hurt, but it was more of a deep ache than the debilitating pain he remembered.

The cop noticed he was awake and sauntered over. “Looks like you got yourself your first cellie.” He gestured over to the only other bed in the room, where a man lay unmoving.

Chato ignored him, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see Sergeant Abano’s face taunting him.

In the back of his mind, he heard the nurse whisper to the guard. “Poor Mr. Lane. He’s been in a coma since before I started working here. None of the doctors can figure out what’s causing it.”

The guard scoffed, “I wouldn’t be too worried about him, honey. From those face tattoos; I’d guess he was part of some street gang. Probably had it coming.”

That got Chato’s attention. He twisted, trying to get a better look at the comatose man in the bed next to him. He was pale, his white skin sickly. A respirator covered him mouth, but Chato could see dark tattoos through the fogged mouth piece. Black circles covered his eyes, and dark ink etched into the side of his head and along his jaw made him look oddly like a skull. If Chato squinted, he could see teeth drawn over his top lip. He could almost make out a word on the man’s chin, but it was obscured by the respirator. The man wore a hospital gown, but Chato would bet that there were many more tattoos inked beneath it. But, he didn’t recognize the man. The tattoos were distinct enough that he would have remembered them. 

After a while, Chato got bored and gazed back up at the ceiling. He listened to the quiet beep of the heart monitor and the guard’s occasional cough. His old lady would be waiting for him at home. She had been planning on making meatloaf for dinner. Their little boy would be watching TV right about now. His baby girl was just learning to crawl.

Chato turned his head away from the guard, refusing to let anyone see the tears escape from the corner of his eyes. He’d fought with his old lady before he’d left that morning. She hadn’t wanted him to leave; wanted him to spend the day with her and the kids. He’d snapped then. There had been yelling. A few broken dishes.

The frantic beeping of the tattooed man’s heart monitor interrupted his thoughts. It had risen in pitch and was spiking faster than was normal. Suddenly, the monitor flat lined. Nurses rushed in, pushing the guard aside as they hurried to the man’s bedside. He was surrounded, and for a moment Chato lost sight of the man as they started chest compressions. The group of lab-coats readjusted and began doing something a tube, removing his respirator. The comatose man’s head slumped towards Chato and he saw his face clearly for the first time. The word DIABLO was inked along his chin.

Suddenly, the man’s eyes snapped open. They were pure black. The eyes of the devil. Chato choked, his neck strangled by an invisible hand. Pain seared along his arms and chest, like a thousand needles were piercing his skin. His arms jerked, as thick black ink appeared, transforming into skulls that writhed along his arms. Despite the pain, Chato felt frozen in place, eyes locked with the devil man. The blackness in the man’s eyes began to fade and so did the tattoos along his face, dissipating into nothing. The pain reached Chato’s neck. Countless invisible needles pricked his face and blackness seeped over his vision, like liquid paint.

A sudden heat exploded from his chest and Chato screamed. His insides were being incinerated. Undecipherable words of an ancient language flashed before his eyes, as his mind was filled with knowledge that he couldn’t comprehend. Just as quickly, it disappeared, leaving nothing but the intense heat inside his ribs. Leaving nothing but the burning need for vengeance. A cruel laugh echoed through the recesses of his mind. That was the last thing Chato heard before he was released into blissful nothingness.

* * *

**  
**El Diablo jerked off of his bed, almost hitting his head on the bunk bed above his. His cellmate still slept soundly above him, so El Diablo sunk his head into his hands, letting the mask he’d worn these past few weeks fall from his face.

The devil inside him was getting stronger. He could feel its presence flaring to life inside his heart even now; it’s demands for vengeance - for chaos - constant. The dreams had been getting worse too. Every night, he’d fall into a fitful sleep where the faces of all the men who’d wronged him would dance before his eyes. They were burning in his dreams, their screams mixing with the crackling flames to create a symphony of pain. 

El Diablo didn’t know if the dreams were his own creation or the devils. He was finding it hard to separate the two. He was beginning to feel like the devil had always been a part of him.

He flexed his arms, watching the dark ink waves over his muscles. The tattoos were a permanent reminder of the comatose man, of the fact that he had not always been called the Devil by those around him.

Chato felt a sudden flare in his chest, and his skin burned. Great, writhing flames exploded from his hands and shot across the cell, crashing against the wall, greedily licking at the cement. The fire surged through his veins, and for a moment, El Diablo was certain that flames were going to leak from every inch of his skin.

As if to counter that thought, the flames slowly died, receding back into his palms. El Diablo clenched his fists and the flames disappeared. All that was left was a ashy imprint on the wall, where the flames had warped and melted the brick.

“Dude, what the hell?” His cellmate was staring down at him, disbelief in eyes.

El Diablo shook his head. All he knew was that the devil was demanding to be released.

* * *

By the time the inmates were released into the yard, the story that El Diablo had tried to melt his way through a wall was on everyone’s lips. Most people didn’t believe it, but there was something about his tattoos that kept people from bringing it up in his presence. Some were certain they’d even seen them waver slightly on his skin, as though they were alive.

El Diablo sat down on the bleachers in the yard. The people around him were giving him a wider berth than usual. He didn’t mind. He could still feel the heat under his skin and his mind was working overtime, trying to understand what had happened. 

El Diablo was so busy thinking that he didn’t notice the dark-skinned man stealthily pull a shiv from his boot and plunge it into the neck of a nearby man. Shouts filled the yard and El Diablo suddenly found himself surrounded by brawling men. He jumped from the bleachers, his blood singing. The screams ignited the devil within, and he could feel the flames dancing beneath his skin, demanding to be released. This time, El Diablo pushed the power out.

A ring of fire exploded around him, incinerating everything it touched. The earth surrounding him was black with ash. Whatever was left of the fighting men was littered along the ground, tendrils of smoke rising from burnt bones. The air blistered with heat, and El Diablo found himself laughing. Gloves of flame surrounded his hands and with a flick of his wrist, a fiery crown appeared above his head.

Every camera in the yard swivelled towards him, and El Diablo pointed up at one.

“What’s up?” He yelled. “Hey, you want some of this?”

His laughter filled the yard.


	3. Killer Croc - Bright Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killer Croc fights to survive on the streets of Florida.

Waylon Jones only came out at night. At sixteen, he was already hitting seven feet and showed no sign of slowing. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest despite the fact that he only ate food scavenged off the streets. But the most alarming thing about Waylon Jones was his skin. Thick green and grey flecks dotted every inch of skin, giving him the odd scaly look of a reptile.

But the true reason he only went out at night was that he hated the screams of everyone who saw him. He hated the way their eyes would follow him, shock and disgust mingling on their faces. It made anger blossom and writhe in his chest, festering into a deep hatred.

The sun was setting over the city when Waylon crawled out of the sewers he had made his home. A tattered sweater disguised his arms and face despite the hot Florida weather. His brown eyes flickered left and right and his sensitive hearing picked up the quiet thrum of traffic several streets down.

Waylon maneuvered through the alleyways, ducking into the shadows whenever anyone ventured near. He followed the smell of rotting food, his sense leading him to a large dumpster behind a fast food restaurant. A young man dressed in the bright colours of the restaurant’s logo was pouring some sort of sticky grease into the dumpster. Waylon knew better than to interrupt the boy. Last time the boy had screamed and thrown the pot of grease on him. It’d taken a swim in the ocean to get that stink out of his scales.

The boy finished and scurried back into the restaurant. Waylon was about to step out from the shadows, but quiet scuffling along the alleyway made him pause. Whispered voices reached his ears and Waylon crouched down, receding further back into the shadows.

A group of street kids wandered down the alleyway, kicking debris as they went. They walked with the wary step ingrained into those who had to fight for food and shelter. They were all painfully thin. One of them, a boy with a shock of black hair, stood in the center of the group. Waylon recognized the leader – they’d encountered one another before. A quiet growl escaped Waylon’s lips, but that was enough for the group to notice him. They span, disgust instantly appearing on their faces.

A girl dressed as a boy spat on the ground. “Ew, it’s the crocodile.”

Waylon inched farther back. He could smell the hunger on them. The leader pushed his way forward and looked down at Waylon with narrowed eyes.

“You want some food, crocodile?”

Waylon nodded warily, baring his teeth in what he hoped was a smile.

The boy smiled back, then kicked Waylon full in the face. He fell back, more from surprise than anything else. The boy stood over him and Waylon cringed at the hatred that burned in the boy’s eyes.

“These streets belong to us, you freak. You belong in a cage. I don’t want to see you around here ever again!”

The boy stamped down on Waylon’s chest. The others joined him and Waylon closed his eyes. He barely felt the kicks, but with each yell of “freak” and “monster”, the heat built behind his eyes. 

In one surging movement, Waylon jumped to his feet, sending the kids sprawling along the ground. As he towered over them, they whimpered and began backing away. Several tried to grab some food as they ran.

It was those ones that Waylon got to first. He ripped them from limb to limb, bones snapping under his monstrous strength. Screams filled the alleyway. Waylon’s mind went blank. He barely felt the kids fighting back, his teeth and hands wrecking destruction on anyone who stood in his way. The screams were replaced by pained whimpers.

Waylon didn’t stop until he was the only one left standing. His ragged breath resounded eerily through the now quiet alleyway. He quickly scavenged through the dumpster, grabbing a half-eaten burger as sirens echoed down a nearby street. Someone must have heard the screams and called the police.

Tires screeched and doors slammed. The police were getting closer. Waylon ran down the street, the burger still clutched in his hand. His long stride carried him through the maze of alleyways and the cop’s shouts got further and further away. He scooted around a corner and banged into a couple, knocking them to the ground. The sirens coming from every direction were confusing his senses.

Waylon ran down the main street, but the police were closing in. A car suddenly pulled in front of him, its siren blaring. He swivelled around, running back the way he came. The couple he’d pushed over still stood there, eyes wide.

“You can hide out here.” The boy gestured through a doorway.

Waylon paused but there wasn’t any other option. He ducked through the doorway, tugging his hood lower. The boy leaned against the side, pulling the girl up next to him so that they concealed Waylon’s considerable bulk. The police jogged past, but one paused, staring down the boy.

“We heard a disruption a few streets down. We’re looking for someone…well, you wouldn’t believe what he looks like. The kids call him ‘crocodile’. You know anything about that?” The cop tried to peer around the boy, but he casually drew the cop’s attention with a wave of his hand.

“I wouldn’t know a thing. But,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I could give you some inside information about the goings on at the Inn tonight.”

The cop chuckled, “You know I’m not into that sort of thing, Jack.”

They shook hands and something slipped from the cops hand into Jack’s. The cop left with a wink. The boy – Jack – moved so that Waylon could venture out of the doorway. He was young, perhaps a few years older than Waylon himself. He had a strong jaw and dark sharp eyes that didn’t quite smile when his mouth did. The girl at his side was petite, her face hidden behind long bangs.

Jack gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then released her. “Go home, Mary. I’ll talk to you later.”

The girl gave a little nod and scampered off, giving Waylon a quick glance over her shoulder.

With the girl gone, the boy’s eyes raked over Waylon’s body, taking in his bulk and muscles. “I have an offer for you. If you’re willing to work, I can give you a place to sleep. And food too. Come with me and I’ll show you around, get some more of those burgers.” He eyed the one in Waylon’s hand. “Ones that don’t come from a dumpster.”

Waylon agreed, desperate to be taken away from the police who would be scouring the area looking for him.

Jack led him to a small bar. A flickering light hanging from the top proclaimed it The Inn. A closed sign hung in the door, but Jack opened it anyway, waving Waylon through. The inside was dingy, the few chairs covered with dark stains. Dusty bottles were behind the bar, catching the light from the single window so that the liquid within glittered oddly. It didn’t look like anyone had set foot inside the bar in years.

Waylon watched cautiously as Jack stepped behind the bar. He ignored the bottles of liquor and the dirt-streaked glasses. He reached down and heaved open a trap door that was hidden behind the bar. Stairs led down into the darkness. The scent of human sweat wafted up from the hole.

Jack started descending the stairs, motioning for Waylon to follow. Waylon looked around at the dark cheerless bar, then he followed the boy down into the darkness.

Waylon’s eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of light as they walked down a damp tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a heavy metal door. Jack pushed it open with a grunt and the sounds of excited yells bombarded their ears. They stepped through the door and found themselves in a large circular room beneath the city. Lights hung from the ceiling, sending shafts of bright colour through the smoke-filled room. Sweaty men sat in wooden bleachers that filled the room. Many stood and yelled, their voices encouraging the two men who were fighting in the center of the room. The fight took place on a raised platform, thin metal fencing separating them from the screaming audience.

The fight ended with a loud crack as one man fell, his leg bent oddly. Thunderous yells exploded through the cavernous room as men booed or clapped loudly, money changing hands. Eventually the noise died down as the injured man was carried away. The men returned to their seats, drinks appearing in their hands. Some tossed their arms around painted women, who were sitting primly next to them.

“Come on, up here.” Jack led Waylon between several rows of men, who grunted at the disturbance, but mostly ignored them.

A row at the top was empty, save for a single man who sat in the middle, a thick cigar dangling from his lips. Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t watching the fighters. Sharp eyes took in the sitting men, a thin smile running along his lips as he watched barmaids serve drinks to the betting men.

Jack stopped at the edge of the row, Waylon standing hesitantly behind him. The man waved and they approached.

“Father, Captain Montague wants to place a bet tonight. Also, I think I just found our next big winner.” Jack stood to the side so that he could see Waylon clearly.

The man tore his gaze away from the audience and inspected Waylon with shrewd eyes. “We have many large men – larger than him,” he said dismissively.

“Pull back your hood,” Jack ordered Waylon.

“What?” Waylon’s deep voice was horse, the thick smoke choking his lungs.

“Just do it.”

Waylon glanced around, but none of the audience was looking up at them. Their eyes were fixed on the next fight that was already taking place in the cage. Slowly, Waylon removed his hood, revealing his features to the dim light. The older man’s eyes widened as he took in the thick scales and pointed teeth. Greed flickered in his eyes, and for the first time, Waylon had the man’s full attention.

“What’s your name?”

Jack answered, “He’s called the crocodile.”

Waylon stiffened at his words, but Jack took no notice. The man, however, blatantly ignored his son, eyes solely focused on Waylon.

“Uh…Waylon Jones.”

“Can you fight, Waylon Jones?”

Waylon glanced down at the cage where two large men wrestled, their skin glistening with sweat. “Yeah, I can.”

The man tapped his nose with the cigar, musingly. “Waylon Jones – The Killer Crocodile. Yes, I think that will work.” He waved the cigar at his son. “Take him to an empty room. Feed him. I want him ready for tomorrow night’s fight.”

Jack nodded and led Waylon away.

***

Several weeks later, Waylon was sitting on the first bed he had ever considered his own. His breathing was harsh, his muscles screaming with exhaustion. This last fight had really done him in. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth he had tied around his knuckles and lower arms. Spots of his scales were discoloured, in what he had come to recognize as bruising. Despite his thick scales, the bruises felt tender. He would need to ask Jack or his father for a break. For the past week, they’d been having him fight every night. New men kept appearing, hearing the rumours of the Killer Crocodile, and wanting to prove their strength. Not a single one of them had bested him.

Waylon pulled a bucket of chilled water from underneath his bed. Rocks sat at the bottom. Waylon didn’t sweat, and the only way to cool himself down was to put cold rocks on his skin.

After placing the rocks, Waylon pulled a file from underneath his pillow and began sharpening his nails. He had taken up the practice at the suggestion of Jack’s father. His bruises twinged with each movement.

“Hello, bright eyes.”

Waylon jumped, startled. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he hadn’t sensed the small girl standing in his doorway, since she exuded a faint scent of strawberries. The girl had full lips and dark blue eyes that were partially hidden behind brown bangs. With an ease that surprised Waylon, the girl entered the room and sat down next to him. In a whirl of movement, she took the file from Waylon’s fingers and began sharpening his nails for him. He froze, astonished into inaction. The girl tenderly held his hand, using the file with cultivated skill. Waylon wasn’t used to being touched in such a careful manner, as though he were breakable.

“My name’s Marybelle. You actually ran into me a few weeks ago. I was with Jack.”

Waylon grunted. He remembered that first encounter and had noticed her around the Inn recently. The girl continued her chore, the quiet scraping the only sound in the room.

After a while, she spoke again. “Do you know why you look the way you do?”

Waylon stiffened, but the girl didn’t look up, focused on her task. She was biting her lower lip in concentration.

“No,” he finally answered.

“I did some research.” The girl blew gently on his nails. “I think you have some combination of regressive atavism and epidermolytic hyperkeratosis.” She caught Waylon’s confused look and chuckled quietly. “I don’t really know what it means either. The best I could understand is that these,” she gently squeezed his hand, “are caused by your genes. It’s just a genetic mutation you were born with. We barely use most of our genes, they’re full of junk DNA. But some prehistoric part of your genes got turned on.”

Waylon didn’t respond. He only partially understood what the girl had said. 

Marybelle had finished sharpening his nails and was now inspecting the scales on his hands. “I like how every scale has a little black dot right in the center.”

Waylon’s brain finally got a grasp on what the girl had been talking about. “You don’t think I’m human.”

It wasn’t a question, but Marybelle answered anyway. “Of course I do.”

“Why?”

She gave him an odd look, as though he were a little slow. “Your eyes, of course. You have such beautiful bright eyes.”

Waylon grunted again. He didn’t know what his eyes looked like. He couldn’t remember the last time he had looked in a mirror.

“What are you fighting for?”

Waylon shifted, uncomfortable at the concern that shone in the girl’s eyes. She was simply holding his hand now, but Waylon didn’t feel any need to pull away.

“Nothing. I’m not fighting for anything.”

The girl looked confused. “Then what motivates you to fight? What motivates you to _live_?”

Waylon refused to catch her eye. He looked down at their interlocked hands. His scaly and monstrous, hers smooth and pale. A thin silver band was around her index finger.

“Nothing,” he repeated. 

Marybelle pulled her hand from his, her face suddenly white with anger. “You don’t want to live?”

“I…” Waylon stuttered. “What good is living when I look like this?”

The girl abruptly stood, her eyes unusually bright. Her lips were tight, holding back tears. She threw the file onto the bed next to Waylon and stomped out. Waylon didn’t move for the next few minutes, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The scent of her tears still lingered in the room.

***

Waylon kept an eye out for Marybelle over the next few days. He didn’t know why, but he’d find himself whipping around at the sight of dark hair, but it was never Marybelle. And every time, Waylon felt an odd pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his bruises.

Waylon even considered asking Jack why Marybelle wasn’t hanging around the Inn anymore, but decided against it. Jack had been given the responsibility of arranging the fights and Waylon didn’t want to piss him off.

More time passed and Waylon began giving up hope of ever seeing Marybelle again. So he was completely astonished when her head popped into his room one late evening. He was preparing for bed when the smell of strawberries filled his room and he looked over to see her in his doorway, an apologetic smile on her lips.

“Hello, bright eyes. Can you swim?”

Waylon nodded, unsure if he ought to apologize for upsetting her last time they had talked.

“Oh good. I need your help.”

She started walking away from Waylon’s room and he had to run to catch up to her. They walked side by side through the underground tunnels beneath the Inn in silence. Marybelle led Waylon through a tunnel he didn’t recognize which came up a few streets away from the Inn. Waylon paused at the exit. He hadn’t stepped out onto the streets since joining the Inn.

Marybelle stepped out in front of him. “Come on.”

With a sigh, Waylon followed her out onto the street.

Dusk was settling over the city. Marybelle walked quickly through the backstreets until they came out at the edge of a river. A long bridge crossed over the water, several couples strolling along it. The river bisected the city, separating the more affluent areas from the backstreets that Waylon knew. The last rays of the sun sent speckles of light flickering off the rushing water, giving the air an odd glistening quality. 

The shadows grew longer and the moon appeared out on the edge of the horizon. The people returned to the other side of the river, leaving the bridge empty. Waylon expected Marybelle to lead him out onto the bridge, but instead, she scooted down to the river’s edge.

Marybelle pulled off her shoes and dangled her feet in the river, letting the cool water run over her toes. Waylon sat cross-legged next to her. The cool breeze felt good against his face, his lungs enjoying the fresh air.

Marybelle flicked her feet, sending water droplets flying through the air. “I thought you’d enjoy getting out.”

Waylon nodded. “You need my help?”

“No small talk then, huh? I lost my ring.” She lifted a bare hand.

Waylon looked out over the water. “It’s in the river?”

“Yes.”

“How did it end up there?”

Marybelle blushed, a slight pink tinging her cheeks. “I threw it in. I was angry.”

“At who?”

She shrugged. “The world, I guess.”

Waylon nodded. He knew what that felt like.

Marybelle jumped, startled, when Waylon pulled off his shirt and slipped silently into the river. He immediately disappeared under the waves and Marybelle was amazed at how graceful Waylon was beneath the rushing water.

She felt a tickling on the bottoms of her feet and pulled them out of the water with a shriek. Waylon popped out of the water where her feet had been, an impish grin spread across his face. Marybelle laughed and kicked water at him, sticking her tongue out.

Waylon pulled himself out of the water, droplets running down his scales. He took a hold of Marybelle’s wrist and lifted her hand, palm up. He dropped the ring into it.

“Oh,” Marybelle sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

She slipped the ring on, twisting it so that a small design Waylon hadn’t noticed before caught his eye. There was a pale yellow ribbon in the center of the silver band.

“It was my mother’s. The hospital gave it to her when she became a survivor of bone cancer. It came back a few months later, though.” She paused. “Did you know cancer runs in families? It’s all about a person’s genes. Whether they have the cancer gene or not.”

Waylon grunted, uncertain of why she was telling him this.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you last time.” She peeked up at him from behind her bangs. “It’s just...Not everybody has the chance to live their life, but you do. Use that. Do something with it. It doesn’t even matter what you do, just live.”

“You have the chance to live too,” Waylon said.

For a moment, he thought Marybelle was going to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she smiled sadly up at the moon.

“No, I don’t.” With a shaking hand, Marybelle gave one hard tug at her hair, and the wig fell off her head. “I have cancer. The doctors say I only have a few weeks left, if that.”

Waylon looked down at the thin girl at his side. Without her bangs in the way, he could see clearly into her eyes. 

She is so beautiful, he thought. And it was breaking his heart.

Waylon carefully took her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Marybelle leaned against him, shivering against his wet scales.

“Thanks for helping me, bright eyes.”


	4. Katana - Smoke and Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katana was a mother, wife and famous swordswoman until her brother-in-law returns, destroying the life she had created.

Maseo was remembering. He remembered how his older brother would gently hold his hand and take him for a walk whenever their parents would argue. He remembered the way his wife’s eyes shone with unshed tears when she walked down the aisle. He remembered the joy he felt when he discovered that she was pregnant, and his astonishment when it turned out to be twins.

But the memories were fuzzy and oddly distorted. Maseo clung to them with desperation, but they were becoming more slippery and confused. Memories that weren’t his were mixing in with them, faces and voices that he didn’t recognize entering his mind.

Maseo knew where the unknown memories were coming from – the other souls trapped in Soultaker with him. Their consciousnesses were rubbing against each other, memories shared between them. But Maseo tried to ignore the other souls. There was only one thing that he was interested in – the voice of his wife.

Her voice would occasionally boom throughout Soultaker. The memories of his wife were slowly fading, but whenever he heard her voice, the memories would come flooding back. The feeling of her lips against his, her dark eyes, her skilled hands. But whenever her voice receded, the memories would fade.

And he was left listening to the sound of screaming souls.

*******

The first time Maseo had seen Tatsu, he was going for a run through the countryside with his brother. The fall wind shook the trees that grew along the pathway, sending bright leaves fluttering through the air. The brothers’ hair was windswept and their cheeks pink with exertion. Takeo grumbled as the path turned upwards, winding up towards the top of the mountain.

It had taken Maseo a good hour to convince his brother to go running. Takeo preferred lifting weights at the gym, but Maseo liked running. He loved feeling the pavement pounding beneath his feet and the wind whipping across his face. It felt like being free.

The two brothers ran up the hill, their breath creating trails of fog in the crisp fall air. On the top of the hill sat a temple, its tall roof just visible above the trees. The brothers followed the path up and around the temple. Its burnished roof and bright red pillars shone in the sunlight. Wooden floors had been swept carefully and washed so that they sparkled. A few monks tended to the rock garden or sat in quiet contemplation. None of them registered Takeo and Maseo as they ran past.

They circled around a corner of the temple and the quiet swishing of cloth came to their ears. A woman stood in the entryway, a wooden sword held loosely in her hands. Thick black hair was plaited down her back. She was wrapped in an autumn red shirt and a black hakuma fell down to her feet, which shuffled quietly across the floor. The woman’s eyes were closed.

Maseo paused, slowing to a walk.

The woman took one slow breath, then began to move. To Maseo, it looked like dancing. Her feet created complex patterns on the wood, her sword cleaving through the air. The woman moved with such deadly grace that Maseo felt his breath leave him. Her movements revealed a beauty and precision that he had never seen before.

The woman twisted the sword above her head and brought it down with one final motion. She exhaled and opened her eyes, noticing Maseo and Takeo for the first time. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. She waved them over, sliding her sword into a loop on her hakuma.

Maseo walked up to her and bowed low. “I am Maseo Yamashiro.”

The girl lowered her head. “Tatsu Toro.”

Maseo realized that Takeo wasn’t at his side, so he glanced over his shoulder. Takeo was still standing in the middle of the path, staring transfixed at Tatsu.

***

Their twin children were born several years into their marriage. Two beautiful girls: Yuki and Reiko. Soon they were crawling and Maseo teased Tatsu that she’d finally be able to teach them to art of sword fighting, so that they could carry on her family’s tradition. Tatsu had laughed at that, but he could see the yearning in her eyes to see their daughters wielding swords. She was already letting them play in the dojo and watch whenever she taught martial art lessons to the men who travelled across Japan to learn from her.

Their daughters had been playing in the dojo under the watchful eye of their nursemaid when a servant informed Maseo that he had a visitor. Maseo went out to the porch, where he laughed loudly and hugged his brother, who stood awkwardly on the pathway.

Maseo pulled away, clapping his brother soundly on the shoulder. “Takeo, it’s been so long! Please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

Maseo lead Takeo through their home and into the sitting room, where cushions sat around a long wooden table. Several ornate bowls decorated the tables, along with an expensive Chinese vase filled with blooming sakura blossoms. Maseo and Takeo sat down across from each other. Maseo ordered several plates of delicacies from a nearby servant, but when they arrived, Takeo refused to touch them.

Now that they were sitting, Maseo could inspect his brother. They had barely spoken these past few years. Maseo had been busy with Tatsu and the kids, and Takeo had disappeared, doing who knows what. Tattoos now ran down Takeo’s arms, and Maseo could see a few creeping up his neck above the collar of his shirt. Dark rings stood out under his eyes, and the muscles under his shirt were more defined than Maseo remembered. He wasn’t the youthful young man that Maseo remembered. His brother had grown up. Maseo wondered idly if he looked different to his brother after all these years.

Takeo sat formally across from him, but his arms were tense and Maseo guessed that he was clenching his fists beneath the table. His brother had never been very good at hiding his emotions.

Finally, Takeo spoke. “We must have words, brother. It’s been many years, but I’ve finally come to realize that you have stolen something from me. Something that is rightfully mine.”

Maseo was astonished. “Brother, I do not know what you think it is that I have stolen from you, but please, speak its name and I shall have it delivered to you immediately.”

A muscle ticked in Takeo’s cheek. “Tatsu. Tatsu Toro.”

As Takeo’s words sunk it, Maseo sputtered. “What…surely I misheard…”

“You did not mishear. Tatsu Toro is rightfully mine, and I am here to collect.”

“Takeo, she is my _wife._”

Takeo sprang to his feet, startling Maseo with the viciousness with which he moved. He paced along back and forth through the room, barely looking at Maseo.

He muttered to himself, almost as though he’d forgotten Maseo was in the room with him. “She should never have married you. It was our families that pushed you two together. She never really loved you. Her heart always belonged to me!”

At that, Maseo stood stiffly, his voice brimming with withheld anger. “That’s enough, Takeo. Tatsu is not, and never was, yours to claim. Leave now, before you say something else you’ll regret.”

Takeo sneered at his brother’s words, a grimace that marred his good looks. “Something I’ll regret? You think I haven’t regretted these past years, watching the two of you being happy together? Watching her have your children? Watching you live the life that should have belonged to me?”

Maseo’s dark eyes caught and pinned his brother’s frenzied ones. “You are no longer welcome in this house. Until you return and apologize for your words, you shall not step another foot into this household.”

For a moment, Takeo’s eyes seemed to shimmer with remorse, and he opened his mouth to speak. But instead, he snapped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding together. Under his brother’s stern gaze, he stalked out of the room.

He took one last look at Maseo, then slammed the door behind him, letting his final words hang in the air.

“I will have what’s mine.”

*

It was dark when the assassin snuck quietly across the well-tended garden. He had bribed the servants who watched the house that night so that they would abandon their posts. The assassin slunk through the corridors, bearing a long silver scar that stretched across his jaw, giving him a permanent sneer. A sword pressed gently against his hip with each step. Its scabbard was without ornament, unobtrusively plain, but still it emanated an indescribable power that made anyone in its presence shiver and whisper a blessing to protect their souls. The assassin loved his sword. It had been a gift from his boss after his last assignment, and with it at his side, nobody dared to disobey him. He passed an open window and a shaft of moonlight hit the sword, revealing a series of kanji etched into the side. Soultaker, they read.

The assassin opened each door as he came upon them. But he didn’t find his quarry until he reached the end of the corridor. The door slid open with a quiet swish. Lying on the tatami was Maseo, his breathing deep and even. His two daughters lay next to him, both fast asleep.

The assassin grimaced. He didn’t like hurting children. He had in the past - when it was part of a job - but it always left a sour taste in his mouth. 

A lantern sat in one corner of the room, a single orange flame sending soft light across the tatami. The flame allowed the assassin to see into the recesses of the room, where several swords were resting. They were battered and well-used, but still sharp enough to kill.

The assassin moved silently forward on the tatami until he stood over Maseo. He bowed and whispered a quiet prayer so that he would be forgiven for the sin he was about to commit. Then, the assassin unsheathed his sword slowly. He tried to let the steel slide out silently, but this was the first time he had tried an assassination with this sword, and it was longer than he was comfortable with. The sword tip clipped the edge of the scabbard as it was withdrawn, making a quiet _shing._

Maseo’s eyes flew open. The assassin tried to hurry and plunge the blade into his quarry’s heart, but Maseo reacted faster than he thought possible. Sudden adrenaline made him instantly awake as he grabbed a sword and crouched in front of his daughters. The assassin circled Maseo, but he stayed stubbornly between the assassin and his children. He would not budge.

Sentiment, the assassin thought.

The two met with a clash that shook the room, their swords fighting for dominance. They cut and sliced and parried, neither able to get the best of the other. The assassin was strong and well-trained, but Maseo was the husband of the famous Tatsu, and his skills were just as polished.

With a surge of strength, the assassin pushed Maseo back. He stumbled for a moment, instantly regaining his footing, but it was enough. The assassin brought his sword up and around, cutting deep into Maseo’s bicep and chest. Maseo stumbled away, and his ankle caught on the lantern, knocking it over.

The crash woke the girls, who looked bewildered up at their father and the mysterious man. One of them began to wail, a shriek of pain and confusion. Maseo shielded them with his body, the sword pointed at the assassin. But his muscles were quivering and his kimono was turning red, the blood seeping out of his wound.

None of them noticed the flames from the lantern lick along the tatami, setting it on fire.

The assassin flicked his sword lazily through the air, confident that Maseo would soon be dead. He was already thinking of the sake and company that he could be enjoy thanks to the money he would get from this assassination.

In one sudden, desperate motion, Maseo flung his sword at the assassin. It went wide, but it was distraction enough that Maseo could grab his daughters and run out of the room. The assassin cursed and gave chase down the corridor.

But Maseo was injured and weighed down by his crying children, and the assassin was ambitious and athletic. Maseo could hear the assassin’s footsteps pounding behind him. Maseo yanked open a pantry closet and unceremoniously dumped his daughters on a shelf, then slammed the door, leaving them whimpering in the darkness. Maseo kept running, leading the assassin away from his children.

The only thing that kept Maseo going was the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He stumbled out into the yard, the moonlight illuminating the scene with cold silver. The assassin’s footsteps grew close and slowed down.

Maseo knew the assassin was right behind him. But he was unable to go on. His lifeblood was leaving him and, with the adrenaline gone, he was in agony.

The footsteps stopped behind him. Maseo whispered a quiet blessing to his gods to keep his girls safe. The tip of the sword nudged between his shoulder blades, the metal cold against his flesh.

He was in so much pain. His mind was brimming with agony. He would gladly welcome death if it meant the end to this pain that overwhelmed his body and mind.

Maseo took one last look around the garden that was bathed in silver moonlight. There was the rock where he would sit to paint. There was the flowerbed that was always blooming with colours, though now it seemed strangely uniform in the moonlight. There was the koi pond where his daughters had once tried to catch the fish swimming beneath the water.

And there was Tatsu standing on the garden path, her dark eyes wide. She wore her travelling clothes, her collection of swords in a sling over her shoulder. Their eyes locked and Maseo could see the confusion and fear in her eyes as she looked over his shoulder at the assassin standing behind Maseo, the sword tip pressed against his back.

The three of them stood frozen, a scene struck in stone. Behind the scene, flames flared across the tiled roof, lapping at the air. The fire had spread rapidly, engulfing the rooms in flame and choking the air with black smoke that billowed up into the night sky, blocking out the stars.

With the heat from the flames behind him, the assassin plunged his sword into Maseo’s back in one fluid thrust. Maseo felt the cold steel slicing through his flesh, sliding between two ribs. He felt his body jerk, and then his vision blurred as excruciating pain flared across his chest. For a moment, Maseo felt himself falling, his consciousness sliding out of his own body and along the length of the blade. His eyes emptied. Tatsu watched as her husband fell to his knees, then collapsed. Blood blossomed between his shoulder blades, staining the ground.

The assassin shook the sword, spattering blood along the cobblestones. “Takeo sends his regards.” A drop of blood landed on Tatsu’s cheek.

Tatsu’s mind was numb as she looked down at her husband’s body, the assassin standing over him. Behind them, red sparks shot up into the sky as the flames consumed their house. Pieces of the roof collapsed inwards, crashing down through the fire. The flames silhouetted the assassin as he brandished his sword over Maseo’s body, his scarred face shining in the firelight. Red spread over Tatsu’s vision and she found a sword in her hand, the sling forgotten on the ground.

Tatsu charged the assassin. Their blades met, flashing red in the firelight. The assassin’s face was pulled taught as he parried; his wrist jarring painfully with each blow. Tatsu was stronger and more skilled than any fighter he had faced before, and her anger gave her strength.

Ashes and embers fell around them as they fought, blades clashing. Anger filled Tatsu, adrenaline flushing through her veins. She pushed the assassin back against the flaming house, their swords creating streaks of silver in the night air. They fought hard, each landing small cuts upon their opponent. The assassin circled Tatsu, forcing her closer to the flames with each blow. The heat licked at Tatsu’s back and sweat dripped down her spine. The assassin pivoted unexpectedly, his sword slicing into Tatsu’s stomach. She could feel her skin and muscle split beneath the blade, but the pain was dull.

Blood roared in her ears, anger blocking out any rational thought as her sword slashed and thrust. Her body reacted on instinct, and when the assassin’s sword came down in a silver arch, Tatsu blocked it and brought her other hand up to grab the assassin’s wrist. She twisted with all her might until tendons snapped and bones cracked beneath her fingers. The assassin cried out and dropped the sword. Tatsu caught the falling sword, and in the same movement, stabbed the assassin through the belly with his own sword. Her sword came up and sliced through the assassin’s throat. Tatsu found herself pressed up against the assassin. She saw the assassin’s astonished eyes emptying as though his soul was being sucked down into the sword. Tatsu stepped back, pulling the sword from flesh with a sickening wet sound.

She stared down at the assassin’s body, her arms heavy with exhaustion. Her entire body felt tired, the cut on her stomach twinging. The adrenaline was ebbing from her veins, making her mind slow. Everything seemed numb. She couldn’t even feel the heat of the flames that licked at the air inches from her skin. The only thing she could feel was the hilt of the assassin’s sword in her grip. The sword felt heavy and unnaturally well-balanced. It almost felt like a living thing in her hand. For a moment, she thought she could feel a gentle pulse in the hilt. A whisper nudged against her consciousness, a wisp of a voice she could barely make out. It sounded like her daughter’s names.

The whisper shook Tatsu into awareness. She stared into the flaming house, her lungs choking from the smoke. Yuki. Reiko. Where were they?

_The fire_, the familiar voice whispered. _They’re in the fire_.

Forgetting the cut on her side, forgetting the heat of the flames, forgetting that the house was collapsing around her, Tatsu dived into the fire. She pushed her way through the burning house, her fingers blistering as she kept a grip on the two swords. The black smoke filled her lungs and made her eyes water as she gasped for breath.

_The closet_. _Check the closet_. The voice was getting stronger, urging her on.

Tatsu stumbled through the fire, desperately trying to identify her surroundings. She couldn’t tell the difference between any of the rooms. Everything was on fire. All she could see was flames and smoke and ash. Something above her cracked, and Tatsu looked up just in time to see a section of the ceiling fall down upon her. Tatsu dived out the way, skidding across a path of embers. She slammed into a wall, the weakened wood splintering on impact. Tatsu fell among the flames, one of the swords skittering along the floor away from her. She stumbled towards it, trying to find her sword.

_Leave,_ the voice insisted. _Get out of the house._

But the children. Yuki. Reiko. Tatsu tried to speak, but the smoke choked her throat.

_No._ The voice sounded strained. _They…they’re lost._

Tatsu stumbled her way through the flames, desperately searching for a way out. A gentle breeze touched her bare skin and Tatsu moved towards it, breaking out into the courtyard. Tatsu fell to her knees, coughing. She crawled away from the house, trying to escape the searing heat given off by the flames.

Tatsu reached the garden and pulled herself up, leaning against a sakura tree. Something was burning, and it wasn’t the house. It smelled odd, like burning fabric. And something was smoking, emitting little puffs of smoke. Tatsu began pulling off her kimono, until she realized that it wasn’t her clothes that were on fire. She quickly grabbed her hair and, using the sword still in her hand, chopped her hair at her shoulders. The smoldering locks dropped to the ground around her, the fine black hair dotted with embers.

Tatsu looked back at her burning home – her burning family. Takeo had done this. He ordered the murder of her husband and her children. 

Tatsu’s grip on the sword tightened, her knuckles turning white. She still held the assassin’s sword. Golden kanji was inscribed on the top of the hilt, naming the sword Soultaker. Shaking with anger, Tatsu pointed the sword towards her burning home.

She swore on Soultaker to remember this moment. She swore to take revenge on Takeo for the death of her family. An odd green aura seemed to glisten around the sword, caressing Tatsu’s hand like a mist.

For a moment, Tatsu thought she heard her husband’s voice. _I love you._

She blinked and the aura disappeared. Tatsu lowered the sword and turned her back on the burning house. She walked away, refusing to look back.

***

Tatsu crouched in the center of the dojo, panting. Soultaker was clenched in her hand, slick with sweat. She gasped; her lungs desperate for air. Tadashi stood over her, his own sword in hand. Tatsu tried to get to her feet, Soultaker raised as protection, but she stumbled. Her legs felt like weights.

Tadashi sighed and sheathed his sword. “That is enough for now, Tatsu.”

“No.” Tatsu struggled to her feet. “Keep going. I need to be stronger.”

Tadashi shook his head, a smile making the lines around his eyes crinkle. “Well, if you must wield something, let it be this.”

He took a broom from the corner of the room and offered it to Tatsu.

Sighing, Tatsu sheathed her sword and took the broom. Tadashi began sweeping from one edge of the tatami and Tatsu from the other so that they would meet in the middle. The beams of sunlight from the high windows caught the dust as it swirled around them, like shining snowflakes.

Tatsu violently moved the broom bristles against the tatami mats, grumbling quietly under her breath.

“Why must you become stronger, Tatsu?” Tadashi asked, his own broom moving with deceptive grace.

“To enhance my skills,” Tatsu answered.

Tadashi chuckled. “That wasn’t my question, child.”

Tatsu stiffened, her eyes hard. She continued to sweep the tatami with controlled precision. They finished and returned the brooms to their corner. Afterwards, the teacher and student sat together and sharpened their swords out in the garden that circled the dojo.

Tatsu always enjoyed tending to her weapons. The familiar movement of blade against stone was calming. They sat together in silence, Tadashi’s question seemingly forgotten until Tatsu spoke.

Her voice was calm, distant. “I am responsible for my family’s death.”

“I was under the impressions that it was the yakuza who burned your home and killed your family.”

“The yakuza…their assassin was there under the orders of my brother-in-law. But it shouldn’t have happened that way. He believed my husband had a debt to pay – and he ought to have faced him in proper combat, not sent an assassin in the heart of the night.”

Tadashi nodded. Debts between brothers almost always led to bloodshed. It was the way of men.

“What debt did he believe owed to him?”

Tatsu’s hand slipped, Soultaker shrieking against the stone. Carefully, she continued to sharpen the sword. Her movements were natural and fluid, but there was a tenseness about her muscles that Tadashi recognized. Tatsu was angry. And guilty.

“I...Takeo…my brother-in-law believed that he was in love with me. He believed that I belonged with him, not my husband.”

“A man’s love for a woman is not the woman’s fault. It does not allow him to lay claim to her.”

“I love my husband, Tadashi.”

Tadashi looked carefully over at his student, moving on to sharpen his dagger. “I was not implying otherwise.”

“I loved Takeo too, once.”

“The brother-in-law?”

Tatsu nodded. “We courted, in secret. The marriage to my husband was planned by our parents. I knew that I would eventually marry him, not Takeo. I believed he knew that as well. Neither of us were willing to be disowned by our families. I did not love my husband when we first married, but I knew that I could grow to love him. But, on my wedding night, Takeo asked me to run away with him. I refused.”

Tatsu looked down at the sword in her hand, fighting to blink back tears. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t shed a tear – not until she had her revenge. “I refused him, but…I hesitated. He asked and there was a moment where I saw a life living with a man I loved, travelling across Japan together. Not having to worry about familial duties or raising children. So, I hesitated. I believe he took that hesitation to mean that he had a claim on my heart.”

Tatsu bowed her head, a single tear dropping onto the blade sitting across her lap. “I am the reason my family is dead.”

Tadashi placed a gentle hand on his student’s shoulder. “You loved your family.”

It wasn’t a question, but Tatsu answered anyway. “I love my husband. And my children. I love them so much that I cannot even bare to say their names.”

“Do you still love him?” Tadashi asked gently.

Tatsu looked at him with red eyes, a question in her gaze.

“Takeo. You loved him once. Do you still?”

Tadashi watched as Tatsu’s face hardened, murder in her eyes. The cold, merciless anger in her expression made Tadashi shiver. He knew what this young woman was capable of.

“Whatever claim he had to my heart disappeared the day he ordered the death of my family. He committed the one sin that I can never forgive.”

Tadashi nodded, understanding in his eyes. “And to get your revenge, you must become stronger. Tatsu, your talent is obvious and your skill has only grown over the years. You are already a strong, young woman.” Tadashi sheathed his dagger and stood. “Whenever you are ready to spar again, come inside.”

Tatsu bowed and watched her teacher return to the dojo, his sword swinging casually at his side. By herself, Tatsu finished sharpening Soultaker and returned the blade to its sheath. She sat for a moment, looking out on the garden. A rock waterfall sat by an outcropping of blossoming trees. The sunlight glittered off the rippling water like fairies dancing over the falls.

Tatsu gently ran her hand along the sword, the familiar feeling comforting. Every time she held Soultaker she felt closer to her husband. It was taken her a while, but Tatsu had begun to suspect that her husband’s soul had truly been captured within the shining blade. She had found herself, when she felt most lonely and lost, talking to the sword. And, when her mind was calm, Tatsu was almost certain that she heard her husband’s voice speaking back to her.

***

Trapped inside the sword, Maseo was losing his mind. Not that he had much of a mind to lose, now that his memories were warping and becoming confused. The other souls in the sword would whisper and yell and overlap to the point that their voices became nothing but a confusion of screams. He could only guess how long the whispering souls had been trapped in the sword, as their voices seemed to dim with age. Maseo worried that soon his own voice would become nothing but a whisper. Even the ones that yelled refused to communicate with Tatsu when she held the sword – they simply screamed for vengeance.

Maseo let his mind wander, floating through the stream of souls. He could hear Tatsu’s voice, but it was far off and dim. Her familiar, lilting tones came closer and Maseo focused his energy on her voice. It suddenly echoed through the sword and Maseo realized that she was answering questions that he couldn’t hear. She was talking about him – how she believed that she was responsible for his death.

Maseo listened, astonished, as Tatsu told a story that he had never suspected. He hadn’t known that Takeo had been so in love with Tatsu. He hadn’t known that Tatsu felt the same. It shook him to know that Tatsu had loved his brother. But she also loved him. He knew that with every fiber of his being. He had seen that love in Tatsu’s eyes every morning when they woke up together, their limbs intertwined. She would turn her head and smile up at him. They had loved each other, he was sure of it. And they had both loved their daughters.

Maseo heard Tatsu’s voice break and he felt something wet land on the blade. Tatsu was crying. Maseo felt the presence of whoever Tatsu was talking to disappear, leaving Tatsu alone with Soultaker. It was silent for a moment, the other souls quieting as Tatsu stroked the sword.

Then she spoke. “I’m sorry, Maseo.”

The sorrow in her voice broke Maseo’s heart. How badly he wanted to take Tatsu in his arms, stroke her hair and tell her that she wasn’t responsible. What he would give to tell Tatsu that he didn’t blame her for his death. That she was forgiven.

But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch Tatsu walk down her own path.

***

When Tatsu landed in America, a group of men was waiting for her. They escorted her from the airport to a nondescript building, where a tall man dressed in a military uniform sat her down.

English felt odd on Tatsu’s tongue, but she made sure to speak without an accent. “I was told that I would be given information on Takeo Yamashiro.”

“Yes, we shall get to that,” the man said in perfect Japanese. “You are here because we would like to offer you a deal. We would like to employ you, and in return, we shall allow you access to all our information and informants to track down Mr. Yamashiro.”

“What sort of employment?”

“You will help us track down, capture and restrain people of the…supernatural persuasion. You are talented, Mrs. Yamashiro. Your skills and temperament are exactly what we need.”

“My temperament?”

“Your undying need for justice. And for revenge.”

Tatsu nodded slowly. She needed contacts to find where Takeo was hiding – and these people had the information that she needed.

“Yes,” Tatsu said. “I will join you.”

The military man smiled, the expression making him look years younger. He pulled out a clipboard and pen.

“You will need a codename,” he said, reverted back to English.

Tatsu nodded, her hand resting on Soultaker. “Write down: Katana.”


	5. Captain Boomerang - Anger or Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing up in Australia, George Harkness was always interested in boomerangs. From a young age, he invented augmented boomerangs for every possibly scenario, until realizing that he can use his boomerangs to pay for his sister's medical bills leads him to a life of crime.

George Harkness sat alone in the classroom, basking in the silence of the school. The other students had left an hour ago, yelling and stomping their way out of the schools entrance. The confusion of tiny children eventually petered out and disappeared as they jumped in the back of their parent’s pick-ups, ready for a weekend free from responsibilities.

George usually stayed behind after class, trying to avoid the other children. He knew that they didn’t like him – they would snicker and send antagonistic glances his way. The same thing had happened at his old school, but he’d graduated primary school last year – rescuing his teacher from another year of his wisecracks and his peers from a subject of name-calling.

George didn’t know how it happened, but somehow his classmates at his new secondary school had found out. The first sign was when George found ‘RETARD’ carved into the top of his desk one morning. Perhaps one of his classmates had seen him with his family or knew someone from his primary school in the suburbs of Korumburra. Somehow, the students had found out about his half-sister. George’s biological father was an American soldier that had come over for a few months, leaving long before George was born. His mother refused to speak about it – she’d never even told him his father’s name. A few years ago, Betty Harkness had remarried a construction worker named Ian Clearer. The only good thing that had come out of the marriage was his baby sister – Iris.

George grimaced as he flipped through the journal he carried everywhere with him. His dominate left hand was wrapped in a thick cast and held close with a sling, making it difficult to move. The thin, navy journal had been a gift from his mother last Christmas. The binding was worn and smudged from George flipping through the journal, his drawings filling the pages with black pen. The first page contained his name, written in sloppy script, and his first drawing. It was a small doodle in the upper corner of a boomerang from a cartoon his sister loved watching. The other drawings were more detailed, though most were of boomerangs. The others were sketches of Iris smiling happily or playing with her favourite stuffed unicorn, Pinky.

The schematics showed three dimensional boomerangs of varying shapes and sizes. George had designed each one with a unique ability. One was designed to make sharp 90 degree turns, while another could explode upon impact. George flipped to an unfinished drawing of a boomerang that could separate into several tiny weapons and started sketching slowly with his right hand. He was still trying to figure out how the boomerang could split apart, or whether it would be easier to make a boomerang that could morph between different types of weapons.

“George?”

George turned to see his physics teacher standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Mr. Nguyen?”

“Just getting some marking done. Did you need to see one of the teachers?” Mr. Nguyen asked, coming to sit next to George.

He shrugged, his sling making the action somewhat lopsided. “I just thought I’d hang behind. Get some work done.”

“Not school work, apparently,” his teacher said, looking at George’s journal over his shoulder. “What does that one do?”

He pointed at the boomerang on the page opposite the one George was sketching. It was a small three-pronged boomerang. Each prong had a triangular shaped florescent strip that emitted light of different colours.

“It’s a boomerang that gives off different types of light. Bright white to blind whoever it’s thrown at, red to illuminate at night and green for underwater.”

“That’s very interesting. But I don’t think that shape would work underwater.”

“That’s why you use this.” George flipped a few pages, revealing a circular boomerang that was fatter in the middle than at the edge. Mathematical equations were written over and around the drawing, most of which were about the aerodynamics of water. “It should work. I haven’t tried it though.”

“That’s ingenious!” Mr. Nguyen laughed, astonished at the detail George put into his designs. “You know, if you put this much effort into your classwork you’d be a brilliant student. Get into college, get a degree.”

George snorted, managing to fit all his disbelief into the one sound.

Mr. Nguyen sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You might not believe it now, but you could do great things if you could just put some effort into your education – especially someone with your intelligence. George, your circumstances might not be ideal-”

George froze, the gentle scratch of his pen pausing. “My circumstances?”

The teacher paused before continuing. “Everyone has things that are difficult to talk about, George. Children can be mean, and I know that the other students haven’t been making your time here easy. All I can say is that all the teachers and I are always willing to help. I know that with your family’s situation, especially with your sister…”

George briskly closed his journal and dropped it into his tattered bag, letting it thump to the bottom. He refused to meet Mr. Nguyen’s eyes as he stood and pulled the bag over his cast.

“George, you know I’m here to talk if any of the students are giving you a hard time,” the teacher insisted as George hurried towards the door.

George paused for a second, his good hand on the door handle. “Kids aren’t the mean ones, Mr. Nguyen.” And he ducked out of the room.

*

The grey autumn sky hung heavily over the yellowing grass of the trailer park. Trees and trailers intermingled, the occasional rusting truck parked in the shade. George followed a gravel path between the trailers, passing grotesque gnomes and spinning garden decorations. His trailer was on the edge of the park, tucked between a massive Paperbark tree and the trailer of an old couple who George liked, mostly because they doted on Iris.

George tip-toed up to his trailer and carefully opened the door so that it didn’t squeak. The inside was dark, the blinds drawn carelessly across the windows so that only small shafts of light could sneak through. Empty beer cans and abandoned food wrappers littered the floor, piling up around the barcalounger that sat in front of a small television. The television was on, playing some western cowboy movie that George’s mother would never let him watch. A deep snoring came from the chair and George could see the top of his step-father’s balding head over the headrest.

As quietly as he could, George closed the door behind him. He stepped carefully around the garbage. He knew that when his mother would come home from the hospital, she’d sigh and start cleaning. He doubted that Ian would even bother to acknowledge her arrival, except to ask what was for dinner.

George ducked behind the dusty curtain that covered a corner of the trailer. A small cot was set up next to a crib and television tray. George dropped his bag, crouched and reached underneath his cot. He kept his textbooks piled beneath it, along with a collection of comic books and Iris’s toys. The most important item was hidden at the back. It was this item that George pulled out from under his bed. It was a small box with intricate flowery designs that danced around the rim. Inside was George’s most treasured possessions – a simple wooden boomerang.

George grabbed the boomerang and snuck quietly back out of the trailer, leaving his step-father asleep in front of the television. He was halfway through the trailer park when he heard someone yell out his name. George turned to see his friend Mike running towards him, his large red jacket flapping ridiculously behind him.

He reached George, slapping him on the shoulder. “You taking the boomerang out for a spin again? You know, I always thought you were a little like a boomerang.” He pushed George, sending him toppling onto the grass. George scrambled up, pushing back at Mike.

“See?” Mike said. “You always bounce back!”

The two friends jostled each other, laughing, as they walked towards a clearing nearby. They spent the afternoon tossing the boomerang around, attempting to get a perfect arch. George could already throw the boomerang, send it spinning around a tree, and right back to his hand.

Mike stamped his foot and sat down in feigned anger after his throw sent the boomerang into a low-hanging tree branch.

“How do you that?” he asked as George shook the branch, catching the boomerang as it fell. “I wish I was good at something. I bet you could make a fortune putting on a show. Buy a Ferrari or a Lamborghini.”

George stretched out next to his friend, spinning the boomerang on a finger the way one would with a basketball. “Do you think people would actually pay for that?” George paused. “The bank refused mum a loan last week. She needed the money to pay Iris’s bills.”

Mike intercepted the boomerang as George tossed it in the air. “How’s she doing, by the way?”

“She’s in the hospital again.”

“I’m sorry, man. Is she going to be ok?”

George shrugged, watching the mass of clouds drift lazily past. “The doctors say it’s getting worse. They think she has some sort of heart defect – apparently it’s common in cases of severe Down syndrome. But they need to run more tests to know for sure, and tests cost money.”

“You’ll figure something out,” was all Mike could think to say.

*

The bar was almost empty of patrons. The television posted at one end of the bar was the only sound; the weatherman’s droning voice filling the small room. George sat alone at the bar, nursing a beer. His fingers drummed out a tuneless beat on the tin, sloshing the liquor. George’s long jacket was at odds with the heat of the establishment, but he refused to take it off. A flimsy baseball hat proclaiming his allegiance to the Perth Heat sat snugly over his curls, shadowing his face.

A group of women entered the bar, already tipsy. George readjusted his cap, careful that none of the giggling women caught a glimpse of his face. They sat down in a corner, and George swivelled so that his back was to them. He watched as the television flashed through a series of ads before returning to the news. A woman slathered in makeup sat behind a desk, her smile frozen on as she discussed some fashion disaster at a red carpet event.

George’s mind wandered towards the heist happening later tonight. He anxiously touched the many boomerangs strapped to the inside of his coat. Mike had the layout memorized and everything else prepared. All they had to do now was wait. George knew Mike was hiding out at his girlfriend’s house, as he always did before a break in. But George could never stay still beforehand. His legs would fill up with restless energy and he’d find himself stalking the streets until it was time.

George’s attention was caught by the television as the newswoman said his name. “A recent series of bank robberies has been taking place across southern Australia, with the most recent being at ANZ bank in Melbourne only two days ago. The authorities have been tracking two suspects: George Harkness and Mike Wentworth. A police statement suggest that the pair are dangerous and likely armed. The police do not currently have any knowledge of the suspects’ whereabouts but ask any citizen to report suspicious behaviour. Now, on to sports…”

George looked down at the beer in his hand in disgust. He was holding it so tightly that his fingers made indents in the tin. He pushed the can away, dropped a bill on the counter and exited the bar. 

Outside, the spring air was warmer than comfortable. George set a brisk pace, letting the wind cool his face and overactive mind. The sun had set hours ago, despite the lengthening days. Streetlights flickered as George strode underneath them, wandering aimlessly. Soon, the streets were deserted and he made his way towards the east end.

Their target was a minor bank. It was one they would usually ignore, but they were on a deadline. George only needed a little bit more – just a few tens of thousands – and then he could stop being a criminal. He sighed as he sharply turned a corner. George wasn’t even sure that he wanted to stop being a criminal. The adrenaline rush right before a heist…sneaking in and out without anyone the wiser…It made him feel alive. And he was good at it.

George shook the thoughts from his head as he reached the target. It wouldn’t do any good to worry about the future. Right now, he needed to focus on what needed to be done.

The bank was situated on the corner of an intersection, its white marble walls almost shining in the darkness. Pillars propped up the overhanging roof, giving the small building the ability to loom. A single streetlight stood sentinel, creating a puddle of yellow light in front of the building.

George strolled leisurely past the bank, pointedly ignoring it. He turned the corner and stopped by a hedge that separated the back of the bank from its neighbour – an old shoe store. George took one look around the abandoned street, then stepped smartly through the hedge to the other side. Hands gripped his shoulders and he struggled for a second before recognizing Mike’s obnoxious grin.

“Since when do you get anywhere before me?” George asked, dusting off the leaves attached to his jacket.

Mike shrugged. “Krissy kicked me out. She thinks I’m cheating on her.”

“With who? Your hand?” George joked.

Mike chuckled, but his smile faded as he looked back at the bank. “This is too soon. There are too many potential problems: the schematics could be wrong, the guards could have changed routes, maybe they updated their security systems.”

“I know, I know. But this is my last chance.”

They two stood in silence for a moment, considering what they were about to do.

“She’s getting worse, huh?” Mike finally said.

“Yeah…she’s in critical care, waiting for a heart transplant. They have it scheduled for next week, but if mom can’t pay for it…”

Mike rested a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder. “Take my cut.”

“What?”

“From this heist – our last heist together. I want you to take my cut. Give it to that little sister of yours. God knows she needs it more than I do.”

George looked at his friend, his vision suddenly blurry.

“Aw, don’t cry, man. Now,” he slapped George on the back. “Let’s go make some money.”

The back of the bank was a series of windows, the alarms blinking on each sill. They were making a statement to whoever considered robbing the bank: that they wouldn’t get far. The two men sidled up to a window large enough for them to fit through, and Mike pulled an automatic center punch from his satchel and pressed it against the glass as George laid blankets outside the window. The center punch was small, about the size of a pen, with a high-tensile steel tip. For one intense moment, nothing happened as the pressure built inside the center punch. Then the tip sliced into the glass with a quiet pop and the glass shattered noiselessly, landing on the blanket. George braced for the alarms, but nothing happened. The window alarms continued to blink, undisturbed.

“Told you they were fake,” Mike said, and motioned for George to hand him his phone.

George passed it over and pulled out a boomerang with a night vision micro-camera mounted on top. 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Hold up.” The phone in Mike’s hand started vibrating. “You’re getting a call.”

“Ignore it.”

Mike swiped his finger along the screen, silencing it. “Ok, the camera’s connected.”

George squinted into the darkness of the bank, the only light emanating from a single lamp sitting on a deserted security desk. He measured the distance and threw the boomerang into the bank, letting it soar slowly through the room.

George leaned over Mikes shoulder and watched the camera feed as the boomerang flew through the air, revealing a spacious room with marble flooring and a multitude of clerk desks shaped in a crescent. They caught a glimpse of the vault door through an arch hidden at the back.

“We’ve got one camera over the front door, a fishbowl camera in the center of the ceiling and one right above the vault to our left,” Mike said as the boomerang came shooting back towards them.

George caught the returning boomerang and tucked it away, pulling out three small boomerangs about the size of his fist. Each contained a little packet of black ink.

“Hurry it up before the guard comes back from the toilet,” Mike whispered.

George did some quick measurements in his head, judging the distance from the window to each camera. He threw the boomerangs in quick succession, sending each one out so that they swooped right in front of one of the three cameras, squirting ink at the tip of their arch. 

George caught the returning boomerangs deftly and tucked them away. “After you.”

“Why, thank you.” Mike popped over the windowsill, landing silently on the polished bank floor.

George followed and together they slunk towards the arch embedded in a wall plastered with idyllic paintings. The arch was nondescript metal, leading into a small antechamber where the vault door stood waiting. The vault was smaller than the ones they were used to. A thin grate covered a medium sized door. The door was thick silver metal, a complicated structure of interconnected bars and wheels melded to the door. A single red light shone eerily in the center of the door like an evil eye.

George was startled as Mike started swearing violently in hushed tones. After a few minutes, he finally ran out of breath as his face turned purple.

“Your face matches the lovely fuchsia shower curtains your mom owns,” George calmly remarked.

“Shut up.”

“I’m going to guess that they updated their security for the vault door,” George continued calmly, examining the shiny metal. “Think we could blow it?”

Mike took a soothing breath and revaluated the vault door. “I don’t think any of your explosive boomerangs would be able to make it through that. It’s almost fifty centimeters of solid titanium. You’d need some hard-core explosives to break through that. And besides,” he gestured back towards the security desk, “there’s no way we’d be able to do this quietly.”

“What about the wall?”

“Hm?”

“Could we blow through the wall next to the door and make it into the vault?”

Mike stepped up to the wall, gently running his fingers along the plaster. “From the schematics, the vault is big enough that we could break through without destroying too much of what’s inside. It’ll be loud though. We’ll have to distract the guard. You got something for that?”

“Give me a second,” George rifled through the boomerangs in his coat as he walked back towards the center of the bank.

The security desk was still empty. Mike had done some research, and they’d chosen tonight because this guard was older and had a record for wandering off or falling asleep on duty. It was lucky that the bank could only afford one guard per night, although the new vault door was probably the reason.

George pulled out a small circular bulb and stuck it to the outside of the lamp shade on the desk. The light pulsed once, then went dark. It was a small flash grenade that he had adapted to work on a smaller scale so that it would only blind people within three square feet of the grenade.

George returned to the vault and he and Mike stood safely back from the wall they intended to break through.

Mike checked his watch, opening up his bag with his other hand. “Once we break through the wall, the guard should be out here in forty seconds, he’ll pass the grenade and he should be blinded for another thirty seconds and be unable to stand for double that. We’re going to need to get in, grab all we can, and get out as fast as possible.”

“Ok, ready?” George withdrew the largest boomerang in his repertoire. 

It was hefty and carried enough explosives to break through a thick armoured car. It was his favourite boomerang – he’d always had a thing for explosives.

“Two minutes, ok?”

George nodded and threw the boomerang against the wall as hard as he could. It punched through the wall and exploded, sending chunks of brick and plaster shooting out into the vault. The moment the boomerang made impact, Mike and George were moving, jumping through the new hole and into the vault.

Bank notes fluttered around them, falling to the ground like very expensive snowflakes. Mike immediately started stuffing banknotes into his bag, while George went to the far wall where the jewels were kept. He pushed strings of pearls, cases of diamonds and rubies into his jacket pockets. Within seconds, their bag and pockets were bursting. In quick, practiced motions, they cinched the satchel closed and leaped back out of the vault.

A loud explosion shook the air, and George knew that the security guard would be encased in a globe of pure light. His vision would go white for several seconds, then fading to a confusion of blurred images. The guard’s inner ear would be hit hard, affecting his balance and motor skills. George felt bad for the old man. Hopefully, he’d take this experience as a sign from god to retire.

George and Mike hurried out into the center of the bank, slowed down by their heavy burdens. The bank was dark, the lamp having shattered when the grenade went off. Their feet beat out a panicked rhythm as they made their way towards the window, no longer worried about staying quiet. 

“Stop!” a strangled voice cried out.

The guard was stumbling towards them through the darkness, a flashlight beam wavering in the air. George cursed quietly and pushed Mike further. The guard must have only been hit by the edge of the grenade. Suddenly, Mike fell, his ankle twisting painfully beneath him. George pulled him up, tossing Mike’s arm over his shoulders. They stumbled forward, an awkward three legged beast.

“Stop!” the guard yelled again.

The flashlight landed on George and two sparking strings shot in front of them. George instantly squeaked to a stop. He recognized a Taser’s shot when he saw one. Slowly, George and Mike turned to face the security guard. Mike shoved the satchel behind his back with a shaking hand, his face pale with pain as the flashlight’s beam blinded them.

George’s free hand snuck slowly into his jacket, grasping the closest boomerang. He squinted through the light and saw the guard’s drawn face. He held a Taser gun in one hand, pointed directly at them, but his hands were shaking. The grenade must still be affecting his motor ability. 

“Don’t move,” the guard said, his voice unnecessarily loud. “The police have been notified and they’re on their way.”

He stepped closer to them and George could see that his eyes were unfocused. George shifted, half withdrawing the boomerang.

The guard swung the Taser towards him and he froze. “You don’t want to try anything, son. Get your friend to put the bag down and step away from it.”

“He can’t,” George said. “He’s injured.”

The guard’s eyes flickered downward to Mike’s injured ankle and George acted. In a single movement, he pulled the boomerang from his coat and sent it flying with a flick of his wrist. It shot through the air, spinning wildly. Something loud cracked through the air, and George felt Mike slump against him. The boomerang smacked the guard right in the jaw and he was sent sprawling along the tiled floor.

“Mike? Mike?” George shook his friend, still holding him up with one arm.

Wires connected the fallen Taser gun to two darts that were embedded in Mike’s chest. George yanked them out and pulled Mike closer, trying to take his dead weight on his hip. Outside, George thought he heard sirens, but it might have just been the blood pounding in his head.

George lugged Mike to the window as fast as he could, the satchel dragging behind them, still slung over Mike’s shoulder. He scrambled through the window and dragged Mike through it after him. Mike stalled halfway through the window and when George gave a hard yank, something ripped. He pulled his friend through and realized how much lighter he was. The satchel was left behind.

Red and blue light flashed in the street, followed by a siren that was getting louder with each passing second. With one last look back at the window, George tossed his friend over his shoulder and ran, leaving the satchel behind.

He made it three blocks before he had to stop. His back and lungs were burning under the weight of his friend and he could barely feel his feet. George ducked into a small park where only the moonlight broke through the trees. George laid Mike down on a bench and took a few deep breaths, letting the warm air sooth his throat.

“Ok, Mike. I can’t carry you anymore. Wake up already.”

George tapped his friend’s legs, a little harder than necessary. Mike didn’t react. George leaned over his friend’s face, concern beginning to seep into his mind. Mike’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked exactly like the time when George had been trying out his frag boomerang and had accidentally clipped Mike’s chin, knocking him out.

George slapped his friend’s cheeks, trying to rouse him. Still Mike didn’t react. It didn’t look like he was breathing either. George hesitantly placed one hand on Mike’s chest, but it didn’t move. Suddenly frantic, George grabbed Mike’s wrist, his fingers searching for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

“Mike? Oi, Mike, wake up!” George shook his friend, desperately trying to get a reaction.

Tears blurred his vision and sobs tore their way out of his throat. He held Mike’s hand in his own, so tight that he could feel his knuckles rubbing painfully together, but he didn’t let go.

George didn’t know how long he was crouching at Mike’s side, tears running down his face. Eventually, the sobs stopped wracking his body and his eyes dried out. He unclenched his hands from Mikes’ cold one, his fingers stiff. George sat back, and closed his eyes. They felt like sandpaper against his eyelids. His chest felt empty, like it was his heart that had stopped.

Finally, George managed to stand. He could hear the far off sirens. The police must have found the unconscious security guard and broken vault. If the guard was awake, they’d have a description of him.

Survival instinct kicked in, and George turned away from his friend. He paused for a moment, and turned back. Trying not to think about what he was doing, George frisked Mike’s body and pulled out the phone that Mike had tucked into his pocket.

George squeezed his friend’s hand once more, then turned and walked out of the park. He moved away from the sirens, his feet wandering through the streets. As he walked, George checked his phone, his movements’ unconscious. He had five messages, all from his mother’s cell phone.

Not really aware of what he was doing, George hit ‘check messages’ and held the phone to his ear. His mother’s voice rang through his head, tinny from the phone’s distortion.

“George, sweetie, I know I’m not supposed to call, but I really need to talk to you. Call me back.”

_Click._

“It’s Iris, she’s having some trouble and the doctors are worried, but I’m sure it’s nothing.”

_Click._

Her voice was getting shriller with each word. “I don’t even know if you’re in Korumburra, but Iris is getting worse. God, George, her heart stopped….they had to revive her. Please, I need to hear your voice.”

_Click._

“The doctors say she doesn’t have long left, George. She’s been asking for you. I know…I know you can’t come…but…please. I can’t be alone right now.”

_Click._

“She’s gone, George. Her heart gave out and there wasn’t anything the doctors could do.”

For the second time that night, George ran.

*

George didn’t notice the odd looks and whispers as he strode through the hospital hallways, his jacket billowing around him. He turned a corner and saw him mother sitting alone on a chair. George hadn’t seen his mother in two years, and the lines around her eyes were deeper than he remembered, but he still recognized her. She looked up at him and George found himself enfolding her small frame in his arms, clinging to her like he did as a child. Her familiar scent helped sooth his aching heart. 

Betty Harkness held her son at arm’s length, a watery smile on her lips. “Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t have come. The police will guess that you’re here.”

George wiped at her tear stained cheeks. “I know, Mum. Can I see her?”

“Iris is in there.” She pointed through a nearby doorway. “But I can’t go back in there. I just...I can’t spend any more time in that damned room.”

“It’s ok, mum. I can go in alone.”

He helped his mother back into her chair, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and pushed open the door to Iris’s room.

There was only one bed in the small room, the florescent lighting making everything seem too white and clean. Iris was lying stretched out on the cot, her small body barely filling half of it. A thin cotton sheet was pulled up to her chest, her hands lying limp at her sides. Her unicorn toy was tucked under one arm, its bright pink the only colour in the room.

George stood at her bedside, looking down at the still face of his sister. She seemed too still, without her usual lopsided smile and small bright eyes. He could almost imagine her opening her eyes and reaching up to him, saying his name in that happy lisp he’d always loved. 

He felt like he was supposed to cry, but he didn’t think he had any tears left to shed. The ache that had started in his chest since he left Mike grew stronger. His hands were curled into shaking fists, but he didn’t know if it was from anger or agony. George stuffed his hands in his pockets, the sudden touch of cool metal clearing his mind. He pulled out a string of pearls, his foggy mind taking a moment to remind him what they were. 

But they weren’t of much use now. Not with Iris gone. Not with Mike gone.

George emptied his pockets, placing every exquisite jewel and expensive necklace in the bed around Iris. People had never really been able to look past the differences in Iris’s face to see the beauty beneath it, but George thought she deserved to be with things just as beautiful as her.

When he was finished, George gently laid a kiss against Iris’s forehead, a single tear trailing down his cheek and onto her cool skin. Then, he untucked Pinky from under her arm and hid it beneath his jacket.

After all, a thief always took the most valuable thing in the room.


	6. Captain Boomerang - Alias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Boomerang Part II - George travels to America in search of his father and to escape his Australian life.

“Thanks,” George muttered as a steaming mug of black coffee was placed in front of him.

He took a deep drink of the coffee, trying to erase the sticky taste of whiskey from last night. A headache was raging around in his skull and the usually dim lights of the diner were blinding.

George finished the coffee, letting the hot liquid burn him into wakefulness. By the time he got around to ordering a second cup, his headache had shrunk to a slight ache and he could look around without squinting.

Someone had left today’s newspaper on the counter next to him, the black ink proudly stating its sponsorship by some company that created soft drinks. The date in the upper corner caught his eye as he pulled the newspaper towards him. It had been exactly a year since his airplane had landed in Central City. A year since his mother had bought him a one way plane ticket under the pseudonym ‘George Green’. A year since Iris’s death.

George reached one hand beneath his thin leather jacket, caressing the plush toy hidden by his side. He’d carried Pinky with him every day since he’d left Iris’s hospital bed. But he refused to carry his boomerangs with him anymore – they were tucked away behind a fake wall in the small apartment that he rented on the edge of Central City.

George took one last swig of his coffee, smashed it down on the counter and let out a long sigh. He tried not to think about the family that he’d left behind. 

George paid for his coffee and left the diner, walking through the busy streets. He was heading south, through the less affluent sections of town where people in torn coats and too-large boots walked through the crisp spring air. It reminded him of the trailer park where he grew up, when people who barely knew each other would congregate and talk, all because they knew that they were in the same place in life.

He wound his way through the streets until he saw “WWW Corporation” written in large, beautiful calligraphy above a series of factories. George had tracked down these factories, and their owner, W.W. Wiggins, a week after landing in Central City. He’d found Wiggins before he’d even found an apartment to stay in.

Before George had gotten on the plane; his mother had pulled him aside, her eyes red from crying. She’d told him about his father – the American soldier – and how they’d met and that she’d been keeping track of him all these years. She’d heard that he’d created a toy company that had gone international and he now lived in Central City. 

Even though George knew his father’s identity, and was working in one of his factories, he still hadn’t met him in person. He’d seen him once in a while, when Wiggins did his bimonthly inspection of the factories, but George hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to him. But he would. Eventually.

George walked towards the factories, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. Other men and women that he recognized joined him, lugging large thermoses of coffee. They created a zigzagging line towards the main factory to clock in.

A man with a delicately designed tattooed on his neck sidled up to George and handed him a steaming thermos of coffee.

“Thanks, Matt,” George said, taking a deep draft.

“This your third cup already?”

George nodded, still not fully awake. The first few cups of coffee every morning were to get rid of the hangover. It took another few for him to actually function.

The line of men and women slowly made their way into the main factory building, moving with the sluggishness that affects everyone in the early hours of the morning. George and Matt punched their time cards and then separated from the main group. They were joined by Walsh, Fiona and a group of new recruits that George hadn’t bothered to get to know.

Their factory was the farthest from the main building and had the largest machinery. It also had several conveyer belts that ran parallel to the walls and a large pillar in the center, holding up the tiled roof. Walsh flicked a switch and, after several loud clunks, the soft whirr of machinery filled the factory and the lights flashed on. Everyone moved towards their assigned position along the work line. George slumped down beside a conveyer belt that quietly hummed to life and began sifting through the things he hadn’t had time to the night before. The factory was making the last shipment of a small mousey-looking figurine that George didn’t see the appeal of. Other sections of the factory were designated for testing, design and other pragmatic things that needed to be considered when making a toy that was going to be distributed to kids worldwide. 

George gradually woke up as he shuffled through the toys, picking out ones that didn’t meet the company’s visual standards and tossing them into a nearby disposal. Fiona and Matt moved around him, tossing friendly verbal abuse back and forth. Usually George would chime in, normally in defense of Matt when Fiona’s temper got the better of her, but today he didn’t feel up to it. Pinky felt oddly heavy in his jacket pocket. Normally he was barely aware of the stuffed toys presence. Carrying the toy had just become a habit, something he barely registered anymore.

“Heads up, Green!” Walsh yelled across the factory.

George looked up just as the machined whirred down and came to a halt.

“Ok guys,” Walsh continued as he handed out a sheaf of papers. “That’s the last of the Rat-tails series, so we’re moving on to something else.” He flipped through a giant manual. “The new item is called BOOM!-a-rang, with an exclamation mark. Basically, it’s a semi-plush boomerang for kids to toss around inside without destroying their parents windows.”

George scanned the new toy schematics inked in bright blue and yellow. The boomerang wasn’t particularly inventive, but the bright colours would appeal to children. George memorized the schematics with a quick glance, an ability that he’d picked up from all those years of bank robbing. Back then, he’d never thought this was where he’d end up.

Walsh started the machines up again and the last of the mouse toys moved down the conveyer belt and into the waiting area for inspectors to start packaging. The machine clunked away for a few moments, and George was worried it was going to stall, but then it started spitting out the boomerangs. The machine sputtered again and Matt cursed, smashing his meaty fist against the machine in an attempt to get it working. The machine grumbled in protest, made a loud shrieking noise and finally died with a series of ear-grinding clunks.

As the machine died, Walsh stomped off, grumbling about rusty machinery and bills and how nobody ever listened to him anyway. Fiona and Matt immediately plopped themselves down on a nearby bench. Parts of various machines broke down at least once a week and Walsh would always disappear for a few minutes, then come stomping back with a mechanic. The other factory workers slumped down in their positions or slipped out the back door for a smoke.

George stretched out his arms, his joints popping. He took another swig of the coffee and paced along the conveyer belt, trying to wake his muscles up. After a few minutes of walking past the boomerangs the machine had managed to spit out, George plucked one up and began twirling it in his fingers. His mind was still foggy with sleep and his body was working without any signals from his brain. As George paced back and forth, he tossed the boomerang into the air and twirled it between his fingers and over the back of his hand. His motor memory returned with surprising ease and George found himself juggling the boomerang hand over hand. He’d forgotten how fun it was to just play around with a boomerang.

“Damn, Green. Did you learn that back in Australia?”

Matt and Fiona had stopped bickering and were watching George instead. He caught the boomerang one last time and awkwardly put it back on the conveyer belt.

“Hey, don’t stop,” Fiona said. “Can you actually get it to come back to you, like a real boomerang?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Wait one sec.” Fiona popped up off the bench, her red hair bouncing with sudden energy.

She dug around in the garbage can and pulled out a dozen empty soda cans. She quickly stacked the cans one on top of the other, creating a pyramid of aluminum. “I bet you five dollars you can’t knock this over.”

George could never resist a bet.

Fiona had set up the pyramid two conveyer belts away, about fifteen feet from where George was standing. He picked up the boomerang with a flourish as everyone gathered around. George gave them all a low bow, then pointed the boomerang towards the can pyramid, one eye closed for theatrics.

“You might want to move back,” George warned the onlookers.

George added in some extra flourishes and arm waving for the hell of it, then lazily flicked his wrist, sending the boomerang soaring in a perfect crescent. The boomerang arched through the pyramid, slicing through the middle. The cans fell and the audience applauded and cheered as George caught the boomerang neatly out of the air.

“Hey, try getting it around that center pole!” one of the new guys yelled out.

A few whoops followed his challenge. The pillar was large and ceramic and something that George would have been able to throw around when he was thirteen. Rather than simply throw the boomerang around the pillar, George threw it sideways, perpendicular to the floor. It split the air, sliding through a gap barely two inches thick between a skid piled high with unopened boxes and a table, before turning sharply and circling around the pillar. As everyone watched the boomerang’s flight, George pulled himself up on the conveyer belt, his feet resting on either side of the rubber. He’d planned to catch the boomerang at the height of its arch, but as it came back towards him, George realized that he was going to miss the boomerang by a few feet.

The boomerang glided towards him with less force than usual, so George jumped from his conveyer belt to the one next to it, and caught the boomerang by the tips of his fingers. The crowd cheered and clapped as George toppled off the conveyer belt, trying to pass it off as part of the routine. The others cheered as he landed.

George’s coworkers circled him, patting him on the back. Matt gave a roaring laugh and almost knocked him over. The others plowed him with questions about what Australia and how to properly throw a boomerang.

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life,” a voice boomed through the factory.

Silence instantly fell over the crowd. The gathering broke apart, revealing a grey-haired man dressed in an extravagant suit and pointed shoes so polished they shined. It was Mr. Wiggins. From afar, he had looked large in both height and girth, but standing so close now, George realized that he towered over them. George registered little things he had never noticed before – Wiggins eyes were a cool blue, a perfect replica of George’s pair. Something about his face echoed George’s own, like he was looking into a distorted mirror.

“That’s quite a talent you have there, boy.”

For the first time in a long time, George was at a loss for words. It felt like he had just fallen out of reality and was viewing the factory and Wiggins – his father – through the surface of a pool.

A voice said something in the distance and, through the pool’s surface, George saw Walsh address Wiggins. Wiggins turned towards Walsh, and George fell back into reality. His throat was suddenly too dry and his heart was beating dangerously fast. The boomerang was hanging from his limp fingers, completely forgotten.

“I didn’t realize your rounds were happening so early today, sir.” Walsh was still talking. “One of the machines broke down and I was just fetching the mechanic to take a look at it. I can assure you that we’ve never, ever used the products like this before. This was a one off, and I’m going to speak with Mr. Green about his decorum immediately.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve never minded a little spirit in my employees.”

“Uh…yes sir. Well, I’ll just…” Walsh looked around and seemed to notice the crowd around them for the first time. “What are you standing around slack jawed for? Get back to work! We’re not paying you to stand around and waste time.” Everyone hurried back to their designated spots, but didn’t know what to do since the machine was broken, so they just kind of stood there, looking lost.

“Right,” Walsh muttered. “The machine needs fixing. I just need to find the mechanic on duty, then I’ll be right back here to give you the tour.”

“That’s quite alright. I think I know the way around my own factories.” Walsh’s face reddened at Wiggin’s words and George could hear Fiona’s muffled giggles from behind them.

“Of course, sir,” Walsh spluttered, trying to regain some sense of authority. “Do you need something, Mr. Green?”

George was startled as Walsh suddenly addressed him. He hadn’t moved since Wiggins had spoken. He was certain someone had filled his boots with cement when he wasn’t looking.

“Actually,” Wiggins interrupted, “I would like this young man to accompany me as I take my tour. Mr. Green, was it?”

George nodded dumbly.

“Come then, let’s walk. And bring that boomerang with you.”

Wiggins took off at a startling pace and George had to take two steps to every one of his. The boomerang was clutched tightly in his hand now, like a lifeline. Maybe if he held on tight enough, he’d realize that he _was_ walking next to his father and that this wasn’t some fever dream induced by last night’s bottle of whiskey.

“What’s your full name?” Wiggin asked as they rounded the conveyer belts and headed towards the stairs that lead up to the walkway that circled above the factory.

“George Ha…Green. George Green, sir.”

“George Green, huh? I’ve always enjoyed alliteration in names, my own being a prime example.”

He gave a booming laugh and George nervously joined in.

“I recognize that accent. Did you grow up in Victoria?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“Good. Good.”

They ascended the stairs in silence. Wiggins seemed to be thinking because he’d occasionally tut or give George an odd sideways look.

Eventually he spoke. “That was an impressive trick you pulled off down there. Normally, I would have you fired for not adhering to company safety rules.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” George’s mind panicked and words started spewing from his mouth. “I shouldn’t have done what I did – it’s just that I grew up designing and playing with boomerangs and since I came to Central City I haven’t been using them and I promise that it’ll never happen again –”

Wiggins held up a hand and George was instantly silenced. “I was _going_ to say that I’ll have to make an exception in this case.”

“Oh.”

“Of course I can always fire you, if that’s what you want.”

“No. No sir. Thank you.”

A loud clunk came from beneath them, followed by several cheers as the conveyer belts began moving again.

“How long have you been in American, Mr. Green?” Wiggins asked, resting his forearms against the railing. He was so tall that he practically became a hunchback to reach the railing.

“One year to the day.”

“Hm. I always tell my employees that without every one of them, nothing would get done and this company would fall apart. I value my workers highly, especially my factory workers. But, there are more important jobs. Higher paying ones, too. What did you do back in Australia, George?”

“I was an asset relocation specialist, sir.”

“Really? Well, I would like to offer you a new job within my company. I expect great things to come out of the BOOM!-a-rang, but my promotional department has not been able to come up with an adequate way of promoting this product. I would like you to do it.”

George glanced down at the small toy in his hand. He could already imagine the different additions and styles he could make from this basic design. He may have stopped using his boomerangs, but he’d never stopped designing them. He’d already filled five new journals in the past year.

George could barely believe his good luck, but he never believed in luck. Not since that last night in Australia.

“What would this job entail exactly?”

“This product is going to be sold country-wide. I plan on having one in the hand of every child by the end the summer. This is going to be the ‘it’ toy. I want every child saving up their allowance to purchase one, and every grandparent buying one for their grandchild’s birthday. And, after seeing what you can do today, you’ve inspired me to come up with the perfect promotional scheme. You,” he pointed one manicured nail towards George, “are going to be travelling across the country, putting on performances and showing the kids exactly what they’ll be able to do when they purchase my product.”

It took George a moment to realize what Wiggins was proposing. “You want me to put on shows?”

“All expenses paid, of course. I’ll send someone from the promotional team with you, and maybe one of our designers. An announcer, as well. Maybe a TV crew. All we need now is a name.”

“Uh…” Wiggins had lost George. Everything felt so surreal. He could feel the grease under his fingernails and the whiskey in the back of his throat. Nothing else seemed real. It was all moving too fast.

“I was thinking something patriotic. I was in the army as a young man. A Captain. I always liked the sound of that. Captain. So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the name Captain Boomerang?”

* * *

George walked offstage, the yells and screams of excited children still ringing in his ears. Even backstage, he could feel the creaky floorboards shaking as the kids stomped past the small canvas tent that they’d set up just that morning. Ever since he’d started putting on these shows, George had found the winning personality combination that most appealed to the kids watching him – arrogance mixed with daredevil nonchalance. It was a part of his personality that he hadn’t paid much attention to before. But now that he was, George found that it liked it.

They’d been traveling for over three months now. After the first few shows in the small towns surrounding Central City, they’d hooked up with a circus that was doing a similar circuit to what the BOOM!-a-rang’s promotional team had plotted out. George and his group of designers and repairmen and promotional guru had finally finished zigzagging their way across the eastern coast and were now heading for the larger states. After this show, they were heading to Montana.

George made his way through the tent, dodging around tables and hurrying crew. A few gave him a quick nod or a muttered, “Good show, Boomer.”

A small section of the tent had ben cordoned off and George had drawn a crude boomerang on the canvas sheet that separated his quarters from the rest of the tent. Whenever they stopped in larger towns, he’d stay in a hotel, but when they were on the road, George was stuck in a small little section of the larger tent. Whenever he did stay in a hotel, it was five stars and the room service was excellent, but George had never minded being out in nature. In fact, he preferred it. Being stuck inside a hotel room for too long made him tetchy. He always needed to be moving – doing something. These performances helped distract him.

Wiggins had made sure that George stayed busy. Before leaving, Wiggins had pulled George aside and asked him if there was anything that he wanted for the trip – anything extra to keep him entertained. George couldn’t really think of anything, so when Wiggins offered to enroll him in some online college courses, George had agreed. He’d been enjoying them, surprisingly. He’d just finished reading several books on the earliest philosophers.

George found the idea of him taking college courses rather funny. He’d never even gotten his high school diploma. 

His laptop sat at the foot of his bed and George sat himself down next to it, rubbing his forearms. Since they’d gone on the road, his muscles were beginning to harden and grow. He’d starting lifting weights again so that he wouldn’t tire himself out during the shows.

“Oi, Boomer. I’m coming in,” a voice said from the other side of the cloth as it was pulled back with sudden force. Bruce Gellway, their travel coordinator, was standing in front of George. “We’re packing up early and heading to Helena tomorrow, but Mr. Wiggins wants you there tonight. He’s booked a hotel and there’s a car waiting outside. Pack some clothes and boomerangs and we’ll take the rest tomorrow.”

“Ok,” George said.

He waited for Bruce to leave before he pulled out a small rucksack and flipped it open. The first thing he packed was Pinky.

* * *

The hotel was the largest one he’d stayed in. A bagboy carried his rucksack as they’d travelled the twenty-three stories up to his hotel room, then left him with an envelope. The suite was spacious and dotted with various recliners. A door led to the bedroom and another led to the bathroom. George immediately got into the shower, enjoying the sensation of hot water running down his skin. It’d been ages since his last real shower.

He rubbed his hair dry and padded across the soft velveteen carpet to one of the chairs. George passed a shelf piled high with booze, so he grabbed a tumbler of scotch on his way. He stretched out on the chair and propped his feet up on an ottoman, ankles crossed. With one nail, he ripped open the envelope the bagboy had left.

Inside was a single sheet of thick white stationary inviting him to a formal dinner at the Ainsley Dining Hall at seven o’clock sharp. George was certain that the bagboy had mistaken him for someone else until he saw his name drawn in black ink at the top of the invitation. He shook the envelope, and a small slip of paper fell out onto his lap. It was a note scrawled in Wiggins tidy writing. He wanted George to join him at the dinner due to all the progress he’d been making and that there would be several important sponsors present and he wanted George to be able to make new contacts. Wiggins also suggested that George perhaps bring a few boomerangs alone. He finished by thanking George for all his good work and telling him that a car would be waiting at the hotel to pick him up at 6:20.

So, when the time came, George got into a company car in a newly pressed suit, and dropped the rucksack between his feet. He’d had to bribe one of the hotel employees to go out and purchase the suit. Inside the car, his nostrils filled with the scent of new leather and smoke. Not wanting to smell like cigars at the dinner, George cracked a window and watched the buildings whip past as the driver swerved around corners.

When George stepped out of the car, he had to disagree with the label ‘Dining Hall’. The building in front of him looked like a small palace. Columns of pure white marble lined a veranda that led towards the front door, which was a wooden giant outlined by crystal glass that revealed distorted light so that the bright colours from inside the hall shone outward. The entire building almost seemed to emitting light.

Standing on the sidewalk, George could feel warmth on his face like soft fingers. He began walking forward, along the veranda. He let one hand gently slide along the railing, revelling in the smoothness of the polished wood.

As he approached, George realized that he didn’t feel out of place. Throughout the entire time that he’d been travelling the country performing, he’d felt as though he were standing on the edge of something without actually be able to step into the daylight. But here - dressed in a newly-purchase suit, surrounded by beautiful architecture with the Montana sun warming his face – he felt like he belonged. George could see himself living here, walking down this carpet every day.

George stopped in front of the crystalline doors, where a doorman pulled it open for him, revealing the inside of the glorious hall. It was more spectacular than any bank he had ever robbed. He stopped at a reception, where a concierge offered to take his coat, bag and any valuables. He handed over the rucksack and invitation and continued on.

As he stepped into the hall, George immediately began eyeing the security guards that attempted to blend in with the crowd. But their perfect posture, guarded eyes and concealed weapons gave them away almost instantly. One of the guards glanced towards him, and George froze, his breath stalling. The guard looked past him and George could breathe again. For a moment, years of instinct had kicked in and he was certain that the guard was going to pull out a gun and arrest him.

Maybe this place wasn’t as perfect as he’d thought.

George moved through the room, feeling oddly grungy as he took in the beautiful women dressed in satin gowns on the arms of handsome men. Expensive jewelry glittered on the fingers and ears of the women. George’s eye was caught by the expensive Rolex’s and silver cufflinks the men wore. He situated himself at the edge of the hall by a window, letting the sun warm the back of his neck.

A short black-haired woman with surprisingly long legs sauntered towards him, giving George an appreciative eye as she passed. George couldn’t help winking back at her, making a blush rise to her cheeks, before she practically threw herself into conversation with the elderly man standing next to her.

“Her father’s the head of a very influential company in Japan,” a voice to George’s left said.

“Oh, Mr. Wiggins, I didn’t see you. Thank you for inviting me – this isn’t something I ever thought I’d be able to experience.”

“I’m glad you were able to make it, Mr. Green.” He tossed an arm around George’s shoulder, making something in George’s chest tighten oddly. “Now that you’re here, I’d like to ask you to put on a presentation for the guests here today. Perhaps during the dinner?”

“Uh…” George looked down, suddenly shy. “All of my tools and my performance case are still back with the rest of the troop.”

Wiggin’s waved a dismissing hand, pulling George along as he strode through the hall. “Come, meet my partners. This,” they stopped in front of a dark skinned man with impeccable hair, “is the supplier of several of our best units, Mr. Jarrent.”

After that, George was presented to a seemingly unending sequence of powerful men and women, all of whom smiled sweetly and discussed topics that flew right over George’s head. George was waiting for a moment to escape and approach the dark-haired woman, but Wiggins never gave him a chance. The persona he’d cultivated onstage took over and George was able to let his mind wander. He eventually began fanaticising about lying on an isolated island, having that woman rubbing sunscreen on his back, clad in nothing at all.

After a while, George found himself standing on the edge of the group, separated from Wiggins as more people pressed forward to talk to him. Once again, George felt like he was standing on the edge of something important, but was not able to step into the light. He stood there for a moment, engaging in inane conversation with the few people standing around him. George’s attention snapped towards Wiggins as he heard his name. Excusing himself, he pushed his way through the crowd to see Wiggins speaking to a man about George’s age.

“Yes, Green has been a great help with the promotion. I think your suggestion for him to put on a show tonight will give our sponsors here a perfect taste of the direction we’ll be taking the company over the next few years.”

The young man caught George’s eye and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Green. I’m Terrance Falkoner – I work for William’s company.”

Wiggin’s clapped Falkoner on the shoulder, “My boy, you don’t work for me, but _with_ me.” He addressed George. “Terrance here is one of the brightest minds I’ve discovered in a while, and he’s moving his way up the company. Soon, he’ll be working as my partner, I’m sure. We’ll be working together bring this company to new heights! Even last night, he presented me with some innovative ideas.”

Falkoner flashed those perfect teeth again, and George felt oddly sick to his stomach. Several of the well-dressed ladies cooed over Falkoner’s impressive credentials as Wiggin’s made sure to introduce him to everyone present, one arm slung across his shoulders. Wiggin’s moved his way through the crowd, moving further away from George and once again, he found himself left alone.

This palace of light and promise suddenly felt oppressive, like a weight was trying to grind George into the ground. As he watched Wiggin’s parade Falkoner around the dining hall, George felt an angry heat spread from his chest and blood pounded in his ears. George violently shrugged off the hand of a woman, and stomped away from the crowd, almost knocking a waiter over. He pulled open a door next to the small stage, and slammed it behind him, ignoring the startled looks from the help bustling around on the other side.

“Um, excuse me, are you Mr. Green?” a timid looking waiter addressed him.

“What about it?”

The waiter turned green under George’s scowl. “There’s a room with your things, if you’re ready for your performance.” The waiter pointed towards an indistinct door, then quickly scurried away.

George stalked into the room, giving the small cramped space a dark look. His rucksack sat in the center of the room, and George gave it a vicious kick. The rucksack fell open, and several items went skidding across the floor. Pinky tumbled out, its unicorn’s horn bending crookedly. George fell to his knees, and cradled Pinky to his chest as he straightened its horn. A voice came from behind him. “George, the performance won’t be for another hour. There’s no need to prepare yet.”

George turned, facing Wiggins, who’s massive build filled the doorway. As Wiggins eyes fell on the toy in George’s hands, his smile disappeared and his eyes widened. For the first time, George saw Wiggins speechless. His eyes bounced from Pinky back to George and down again. They stood frozen for a moment.

“Where…” Wiggin’s voice was strained, “Where did you get that?”

George hastily stuffed Pinky back into the rucksack. “It’s nothing, just something my mum gave me.”

Wiggins took a few steps forward, and when George straightened, he was uncomfortably close, examining George’s face. He scrutinized George for a moment, his face ashen. The bags under his eyes were stark against his pale skin.

Wiggins eventually stepped back, letting out a deep breath. “You look like her.”

Wiggin’ sudden change of demeanour shook George, and he didn’t quite understand what was going on. “Look like who?”

“Betty. Betty Harkness. I won that toy for her at a carnival on our first date. After I left Victoria, I never thought I’d see it again. She is your mother, isn’t she?”

George nodded, afraid to speak.

Wiggins rested a calming hand on George’s shoulder. His face was regaining its colour, as the shock passed. “You may not know this, son” – George’s heart ached – “but I knew your mother. How is she? It’s been, gosh, maybe 20 years since I last saw her.”

The black cloud that had weighted down George’s shoulders lifted slightly. “She’s still living in Victoria. She’s a nurse now. I…uh…haven’t spoken to her for a while though.”

“Yes, well, it’s difficult to keep in touch with anyone while on the road. I suppose she’s married now. Is Green your father’s name?”

George swallowed; his throat suddenly clogged. “Uh, no. My father…his last name isn’t Green. I changed it when I came to America.”

Wiggins eyes narrowed, and his gaze flicked up and down George’s body. His grip on George’s shoulder was becoming uncomfortably tight. “How old are you, George? Twenty?”

George tried to shrug off Wiggin’s hand, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

Wiggins grip was a vice, his fingernails digging into George’s shoulder.

“My mum…she said that…” George cleared his throat. “Mr. Wiggins, you’re my father.”

Wiggins released George with such force that he stumbled backwards.

He raised a hand, keeping George at bay. “You are not my son.”

“No, it’s true! My mum told me about how you were a visiting solider in Korumburra, how you met when she was volunteering at a first aid station because you’d accidentally hurt yourself on a retreat. She even told me about the bamboo tattoo you have on your calf.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Wiggins jabbed a finger into George’s chest. “The performance is cancelled. I don’t care for your accusations, and even if what you say is true, you have no proof. I want you out of here right now. Wait outside and a cab will come pick you up. You’re leaving.”

Rage flared in George chest and he stepped towards the retreating Wiggins. “I’m your son!” Tears prickled at the edges of his vision. “You can’t just throw me out!”

“You are NOT my son!” Wiggins bellowed, spinning around.

As he did so, his fist came around and smashed into George’s face. He stumbled, falling to one knee. Pain radiated from his gums and blood filled his mouth. George spat the blood out and something small and white landed on the ground. It was a tooth.

Wiggins loomed over the fallen George. “Leave this hall now or I shall have you escorted out.”

George nodded, unable to meet Wiggin’s eyes. He heard his father walk towards the door. The door opened and Wiggins left.

As he stormed out, George heard him mutter, “You know what they say about the crazy ones…”

When Wiggins footsteps disappeared, George reached down and picked the tooth out of the puddle of blood in a daze. His mouth was throbbing, but it felt dull and distant. There was a ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with his injury. His father had hit him.

His father had _hit_ him!

Rage exploded in his chest. In a flurry of motion, George dropped his tooth and pulled several of his boomerangs from the rucksack. He checked that Pinky was safely inside, then tossed the bag over his shoulder and left the room. He strode through the corridors that surrounded the main dining hall. The few waiters that saw him scurried out of his way. As he walked, his mind was buzzing.

Mike was gone. Iris was dead. He’d left his mother married to that douchebag. He didn’t have anyone. He was alone.

George yelled, letting out all of his anger and grief, and threw a boomerang that shattered the lights as it swept down the corridor. He strode down the darkened hallway, catching the boomerang as it returned. He exited the corridor and stopped as he caught sight of the concierge. Behind him was a locked door, where he must have stored everyone’s valuables. The concierge looked up as George approached, but wasn’t able to react in time before George smacked him over the head with the metal boomerang. The concierge fell.

George crouched in front of the locked door, and pulled a lock pick from within his sock. Back in Central City, he may have kept his boomerangs at home, but he always kept a little lock-pick kit on him, just in case. He broke through the locked door in less than a minute. Inside the small room were shelves stocked with purses and suitcases. George zoomed in on the ones that were the highest quality and took what he wanted.

When George left Ainsley Dining Hall, his pockets were weighted down with jewelry, cash, pocket watches and credit cards. The sun had set but no stars shone in the summer sky. George took a deep breath as he strolled down the dark streets. Once he was far enough away from the Hall, he broke into a nearby car and started it up. The car thrummed down the road, street lights flashing past. George hummed a little tune to himself – an Australian lullaby that he used to sing to Iris. 

When he reached the interstate, he paused, then chose a random direction. He turned on the radio and shifted through the channels as he drove down the abandoned highway. George stopped on a channel that he used to listen to back in Central City. A radio announcer’s voice boomed through the car, discussing a diamond exhibition being held in Central City this week.

George grinned, revealing bloody teeth and a missing incisor. With a screech of tires, he turned the car around and headed back towards Central City. After all, a thief should be familiar with the terrain of his next heist.


	7. Enchantress - Whisper of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. June Moone travels to Peru, where she is plagued by mysterious dreams. These dreams lead her to a small cave where she encounters the Enchantress.

The tunnel was dark, and June could barely see past her fingertips. She held her hands out in front of her and her bare feet pressed against the cold rock as she tentatively walked forward. A chilly wind brushed against her skin, bringing with it the sighing voice that had lured her down into the cave. It almost seemed to be calling her name, whispering promises. June stumbled forwards, following the enticing voice further into the darkness. Something shone in the distance, a luminescent blue that almost seeped from the rocks, guiding her towards the voice. The closer she got to the light, the louder the voice was, insistent and intoxicating in her ear.

June stepped out of the tunnel and into a cavern. Runes were carved into the walls, emanating power that weighed upon her shoulders, almost suffocating in their strength. June stepped further into the cavern and the voice dimmed and disappeared. June felt cold and alone without the company of the voice. The runes began flashing with blinding light, disorienting her. The floor began to sway, and June fell to her knees as the sounds of giant boulders crashed around her, sealing her in. Finally, the crashing stopped, and light dimmed down to a pale blue.

When June looked up, a woman stood before her. She was dressed in a flowing dress that hung gracefully over one shoulder. The dark fabric almost floated in the air, as though she were submerged in water. Trickles of green light rippled across her dress and onto her pale skin, which shone in the darkness. The woman smiled and June found herself entranced, unable to look away. Beads of bright blues and greens were knitted into her hair and a headdress sat atop her noble head. Runes that matched the ones on the walls were engraved into the headdress. A single emerald shone at its center.

The woman extended a hand towards June and when June hesitantly grasped it, warmth shot through her arm. Suddenly, she wasn’t afraid anymore. The woman’s skin was warm against hers, and her hand was strong, revealing a ferocity that took June’s breath away. June rose to her feet and the two women stood silently in the center of the cavern – one mortal and one goddess.

As June stared, small cracks appeared around the other woman’s eyes and lips. The cracks spread, cobwebbing across her skin. The hand that June held broke beneath her grip and disintegrated. Before her eyes, the beautiful woman crumbled apart, chunks of clay peeling off her skin and falling to the ground.

Within moments, June was alone, standing before a pile of dust.

* * *

June didn’t open her eyes when she woke up. The vision of the beautiful woman was still seared into the back of her eyelids and June wanted to hold onto that image for as long as possible. Eventually, the memories of her dream became blurry and disappeared, leaving June with a sense of loss. Every night since she’d arrived in Peru, she’d had the same dream of the dark tunnel and beautiful woman. Whenever she awoke, the details would fizzle out and disappear, but her hand still tingled where she had touched the woman in her dreams.

When June opened her eyes, the first rays of light were filtering in through the curtains. June glanced at the clock next to her bed and groaned when it flashed 5 in the morning. The rest of her crew wouldn’t be up for several more hours, but energy buzzed through June’s body. The dream always left her with an odd amount of energy in the morning. June stretched out her muscles as she stood and flicked open the curtains.

Her room overlooked a great meadow where several herds of llamas grazed. From her hotel window, June could see the red flags that marked where her crew had been excavating for the past two weeks. Ruins tumbled over each other and grey clay and yellow rocks shone in the dawning light. Dark mountains stood out against the lightening sky. Today the sky was clear, but June would often see clouds filtering through the mountain tops like wisps of mist. A nearby hilltop caught June’s eyes. The sun broke over the top, making the grass shimmer as wind brushed against it. Several days ago, she’d spied a series of tunnels that dropped into the hilltop that their guide said had gone untraveled. Careful not to wake the other inhabitants of the hotel, June went in search of her climbing gear.

The sun rose higher in the sky as June trudged up the grassy hill. She’d left the hotel without seeing anyone but a sleepy-eyed janitor who’d barely spared her a glance. She’d hoped to find someone from her crew awake to join her, but now that she walked alone, June was glad that she hadn’t. She felt like she was the only person in the world. The sun warmed her tanned skin and gusts of wind tugged at her clothes and hair, bringing the scent of wet rain despite the clear sky.

June passed several smaller tunnels that dropped into the earth, but none of them looked large enough to fit her and her backpack. June came across a larger tunnel that speared straight into the hill at a slight angle. June prepared to slide down into the hole, leaving a white flag at the mouth of the tunnel to indicate that she was inside. The rocks were dry and easy to traverse as June clambered down them. After several feet, the tunnel turned at a sharp 90 degrees so that a path dug straight into the hilltop. If the tunnel continued forever, it would come out on the other side.

Small caves broke off on either side, filled with stalactites that hung from the ceilings. As June travelled farther into the tunnel, she turned on her headlamp, its light illuminating the rocks. Streaks of silver shone in the rock and a small dark shape scuttled across the tunnel floor, disappearing into a crack. Maybe June would return and try to catch the creature – it was probably one of the many species of tarantulas that resided in Peru’s caves. A small gust of wind caressed June’s face and she shivered, a sense of déjà vu stealing into the back of her mind. She continued on, shaking off the feeling.

Ahead of her, the tunnel split into two pathways. One became a slight upward incline that seemed to turn back the way that June had come. The second path dropped straight down, tunneling deeper into the earth. The tunnel dropped off into darkness, and when June shone her headlamp down the tunnel, she couldn’t see the bottom. With practiced movements, June secured her equipment and cinched herself to a rope that wrapped around a nearby rock. Carefully, she leaned out over the drop, peering into its depths. A gust of dry air puffed up from the tunnel, like the breath of a large hibernating creature. June leaned even further out over the hole, only the tips of her toes keeping her from falling. Something flickered in the rock near the mouth of the hole. It was hidden in the shadows and June peered down at it, attempting to make out the symbol.

June was securely over the hole when suddenly her foot slipped and she fell, dropping into the darkness, deeper and deeper until the ropes caught her. She hung suspended by the ropes, her heart beating deafeningly in her ears. June dangled there for a moment as she caught her breath. Stilling her shaking hands, June cinched the ropes tighter and slowly repelled further down the hole. 

The symbol that she had been peering to see was now right next to her, and June traced the intricate design with one finger. It looked exactly like the ones in her dream - the symbols that pulsed with blue light and power. Now, though, the rock under her finger was cold and didn’t seem to hold anything but the soft moss that attempted to grow within it. June dismissed the presence of the symbol – muttering under her breath. Surely it didn’t mean anything. She’d probably seen the symbol at another dig site, and it had been implanted in her unconscious and then into her dreams. That was the only explanation.

Slowly, June cinched her way down the hole until the tips of her toes touched the bottom. Her head lamp illumined the tunnel. It expanded into a large cavern where the darkness was too thick for even her head lamp to break through. June unclipped herself from her harness and stood on the uneven rock. As she swung her head towards the cavern, her headlamp lit up a series of stalactites that hung from the cavern’s roof like icicles made of rock.

June almost expected to feel the same sense of suffocating power that she had felt in her dreams as she unclipped her harness from the rope and stepped into the cavern. As she looked around, she began to realize that this cavern was nothing like the one in her dream. Rusted and broken armour was strewn across the cavern floor, like a carpet of broken metal. From the entrance of the cavern, June’s headlamp shone off the broken arrows and spearheads that grew from the armour like blossoming flowers. 

June’s breath was taken away at the discovery she had made. She had never seen anything like this before – a battlefield buried deep beneath the ground. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, June stepped into the cavern, letting her headlamp’s light move haphazardly across the cavern’s walls. The light shone across the armour and stalactites, stopping on an odd crevice within the far wall. At the back of the cavern, a small pedestal stood hidden within a deep gouge in the wall. Carefully, June navigated her way across the cavern’s floor. The rusted armour cracked ominously underneath her climbing shoes as she scrambled towards where the pedestal stood. For a moment, as June stepped closer, something hidden in the shadows shone blue. There, lying upon the pedestal, as though someone thousands of years ago had tossed it aside in a hurry, lay a small statue. The statue was of a woman, a headdress sculpted of emeralds shining upon her head. June’s lamp illuminated the headdress and the emeralds shone with the brightest green, sending speckles across the cavern’s walls. She reached out and took the statue in careful fingers. It was oddly heavy in her hands, like a great weight rested within the statue. June caressed the face of the statue with the careful hand of an archeologist. With a sudden crack, the statue’s head snapped beneath her hand. June gasped as the statue crumbled between her fingers.

The last thing she saw was the dust of the statue falling from her fingers, then her world went dark and she felt nothing.

* * *

Warm air filled her lungs and a soft wind tugged gently at her ponytail. The backs of June’s eyelids were tinged with pink, and when she opened them, she found herself staring at a breathtaking sunset. She stood at the edge of a temple roof, her bare toes curling around the edge, as though she were about to throw herself off.

With a startled cry, June stumbled back from the edge, her hands frantically reaching for stability as adrenaline shot through her body. Slowly, her breathing calmed and June was able to crawl back to the edge of the drop and look around. She was almost a hundred feet in the air. The height made her feel a bit queasy, since she wasn’t wearing her climbing equipment. In fact, June wasn’t wearing anything at all. Her clothes – even her socks and watch – were strewn around her. Carefully avoiding the edge, June began to dress. She didn’t understand what had happened. She must have climbed to the top of the temple and stripped her clothes off, but she couldn’t remember doing any of that. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything since she’d entered that cavern. It seemed like only seconds had pasted since she’d been breathing musty underground air. Maybe someone back at the camp knew what had happened to her. Maybe she’d accidentally eaten some hallucinogenic mushroom or had a bad sun stroke. Their local guide had massively enjoyed telling tales about the weird things that had happened to different tourist groups, so he’d probably have an idea of what had happened to her.

As June began climbing back down the side of the temple, she fervently hoped that she’d just be able to sneak back onto camp and nobody would ask too many questions.

* * *

“Dr. Moone! Where have you been?”

June sighed as she turned to face her colleague as he trotted up to her, his glasses almost sliding off his face in his haste to reach her. She’d already been accosted by four other archeologists and she still hadn’t made her way back to her room. She desperately wanted a nap.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Arnaud. I didn’t mean to be gone the entire day. Were you able to uncover anything more at the site?”

Completely ignoring her question, the man continued - “We’ve been worried sick about you! I thought you were just feeling sick, but when the hotel manager said you weren’t in your room, I assumed you’d been in some sort of accident.” The French archeologist paused and took in her grimy clothing and climbing gear. “Have you been cave diving? You know the caves around here aren’t safe. You’d think after that incident in Uganda, you’d have given up on all this pointless exploring.”

“Archeology is all about exploring. It’s what we _do._”

“Yes, but you could have been injured. Imagine what the faculty at Stanford would say.”

June really didn’t feel like being lectured as though she were a petulant child, least of all by a man who was barely a year her senior. Ignoring the man’s continued tirade about the ‘dangerous activities women get up to without men’, June stomped off to her room, glaring at anyone else who looked like they wanted to engage in conversation about where she’d been that day. June felt a little guilty as one of her assistants shrank away in fear, but perhaps she wouldn’t be so testy if she even knew what she’d done all day. Almost twelve hours were missing from her memory.

Her mind might not have remembered scaling the temple, but her muscles certainly did, and they relaxed in relief as June collapsed onto her bed. The mattress was so comfortable and the pillow cradled her head so perfectly. She should probably get up so she didn’t cover the blankets with dirt, but June’s eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. She fell asleep immediately. 

* * *

This time, the tunnel shone brighter than it ever had before. The rock was cold beneath her feet as she was lured forward by the quiet whisperings. June reached the light, but when she stepped through the mouth of the cavern, she found herself standing in her hotel room. She could see herself – or her body – lying on the mattress, shedding dirt and breathing deeply.

_Do not be afraid_.

June turned at the sudden voice and came face to face with the woman from her dreams. If the woman’s eyes weren’t shining the same eerie green, June wouldn’t have recognized her. A crescent moon shone on her forehead, dark circles surrounded her burning eyes and long dreadlocks fell limply from her head. Rusted metal chains and armour barely covered her skin. Black runes in complex patterns shone beneath the armour. A heavy necklace of jade hung tight around her neck. June cringed as the woman reached forward with a blackened hand and took her chin between two fingers, forcing their gaze to meet.

_Do not be afraid_.

Even though June saw the woman’s lips moving, she could barely believe that such a soothing voice came from someone so ominous looking.

_You have rescued me from my prison. For the first time in millennia, I was able to feel the sun upon my skin. How is it that you have released the Enchantress?_

The woman dropped June’s chin and began inspecting the room with a baleful expression.

“I’m June. Dr. June Moone. I’m an archeologist and I found the cave with a statuette. The cave was from my dreams. But I couldn’t have dream about an actual cave. I mean, magic or mysticism or whatever this is – it isn’t real.”

The Enchantress was crouched down and was now inspecting June’s climbing gear that littered the floor. With dexterous fingers, she picked up a metal ring and sniffed it experimentally. _I am all powerful. I am a Goddess and you humans quiver before my wrath_.

June crossed her arms and snorted, suddenly aware of just how ridiculous this entire scenario was. “Right, and I live on the moon. If any of this is real, how are we even having a conversation. I’m asleep.” June waved over to her unconscious form.

With startling speed, the Enchantress pounced onto the bed and straddled June’s sleeping body. Before June could react, the Enchantress had leaned over so that she was only inches from sleeping June’s face. For a moment, June though she felt a warm breath waft across her own face from where she stood across the room.

Carefully, June reached behind her and desperately grasped onto the digital clock she kept on the desk. The Enchantress moved with deceptive grace, but June wasn’t fooled. Cold sweat dripped down her spine and she felt as though she was trapped in a room with a wild, unpredictable animal. Even in the dream, June could sense that the Enchantress was dangerous.

June inched closer, concealing the clock behind her back.

_I’m in there_. Enchantress tapped sleeping June’s forehead, muttering to herself. _Trapped again? No human could overpower me before. Has humanity changed so much in this time?_

She glanced over at June, who froze under her gaze.

_No. Still flesh. Still weak, annoying creatures. Curiosity was always your undoing_. The Enchantress sat up, startling June as she addressed her once again. _We are one now. Know this: I will not be enslaved. I am the enslaver._

June nodded, unsure of what the woman wanted with her. The wood felt cold beneath her feet and the fear that swallowed her voice felt so real that she had to keep reminding herself that this was just a dream. Just a dream.

_You say you are an archeologist?_ The Enchantress cocked her head, as though something was whispering in her ear. _Someone who uncovers ancient civilizations and tries to determine information based on the ruins. Curious thing_. The Enchantress suddenly seemed much more casual, as though she trying to act human, but was vividly aware of the pretense. _When I enslaved the world, you humans refused to let go of your pathetic gods until I destroyed everything they held sacred. You fell to your knees as you witnessed my power. You kept a silver circlet in a box. When I donned it, you realized that I was your true ruler. Some of you resisted, and I buried those that did. I am a Goddess._

As the Enchantress spoke, June’s mind was buzzing with activity. Her archeology group had uncovered carvings of a civilization that worshiped some sort of circlet or crown. Then an earthquake had happened, and the civilization seemed to have disappeared.

_I feel your curiosity_, the woman spoke again. _Odd, to feel something that does not belong to me. I can take you there, to the site of my first massacre, if you so wish_.

The Enchantress picked June’s limp hand off the bed and inspected it with unsettling single-mindedness. _All you need to do is call my name. Enchantresssss…_

With a flick of a wrist, a long knife appeared in the Enchantress’s hand. June jumped forward, bringing the clock up and around to smash her head. The knife flashed through the air and June woke with a cry.

She was alone in her room; the only sound her frantic breathing. Her hand stung and somethings sticky dribbled down her skin. June flicked on her lamp and saw that a long, shallow wound was cut into her palm. She staunched the oozing blood with a bedsheet, her mind racing. Fear still made her skin prickle, but now excitement bubbled in her chest. If this was true – if this madness could be true – then she had direct access to someone who had existed millennia ago. She had a direct line to someone who would know about the ancient civilizations and would hopefully be able to locate new ruins that had never been discovered before. June was going to become a pioneer of her field. 

* * *

They were a kilometer away from the ruins of a long-ago village and moving at a surprising clip along a winding road. June sat in the front of the Humvee next to their guide, yelling directions over the noise. They crested over the top of a hill and drove along a ridge. Below them, June could see several small bungalows and people the size of mosquitoes milling about. They continued on, around the edge of the hill and out of sight of the small village. Several minutes later, they came upon the abandoned village that June knew would be there. June jumped out of the car, grabbed her supplies from the back and started walking down the path. At first, the signs were barely there – just an oddly hewn rock, an unnatural mound of dirt and sediment – but as they moved on, the evidence grew. Coloured stones were stacked in circles, fighting for space with the trees and local vegetation, mapping out where homes and paths once were. Pieces of broken pottery, bleached white from the sun, still lay along the ground, half buried beneath the red soil. As June strode carefully through the ruins, she could hear her colleagues muttering behind her.

When she’d first approached them that morning about a new digging site, the others had given her odd glances, though she’d managed to avoid any questions about where she’d been yesterday. She’d finally convinced them to go along with her, seeing as how the site she had in mind wasn’t too far from the one they were already excavating. The fact that she had this new site ‘in mind’ at all was slightly terrifying, but it helped dissuade the guilt of not telling the others about the archeological discoveries deep in the caves. Just the thought of returning made her break out in a heavy sweat.

Every once and a while, she’d get a small niggling in her brain, like a voice nudging her in the right direction. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that it was the Enchantress whispering in her mind. It was disconcerting that the voice in her head sounded so much like her own that it was difficult to tell whether the thought was her own or not.

June and her colleagues came to the center of the village, where broken shards of granite erupted from the ground. For a moment, June saw a temple towering over her, shining red in the setting sun. She blinked, and the vision was gone. All that was left of the temple were the few pillars and stones that must have once paved the floor, but now sunk into the ground, as if the earth were attempting to absorb the dead civilization.

A wave of anger tinged with remorse at the sight of the long dead civilization overtook her mind, but June shook it away. She knew it wasn’t her emotion, but the Enchantress’s.

“What do you think these are?” Dr. Arnaud asked, gesturing towards the holes that were dug deep into the ground. They were a meter in diameter and depth and seemed to have been dug at random throughout what was once the temple. 

June crouched down and touched the edge of a hole, the ground chilling her finger. “These were dug recently. The dirt is still wet in some places and it hasn’t rained in days.”

Another of June’s colleagues chimed in, an elderly British Professor, “Perhaps it was the locals. They have been desecrating several other sites as well, though none of them have been as old as this. How old did you say this site was?”

A flash of burning huts and screaming people.

_How dare they? _Enchantress’s voice crept through her mind, the cold anger radiating from it making June shiver despite the scorching sun overhead. _They should pray to us; kneel before their gods – not rummage through our temples like thieves!_

“Old,” June said, trying to refocus on the ground as she walked around the circumference of the temple. “Ancient, maybe.”

Carefully, June and her colleagues set to work under the hot Peruvian sun. By the time the sun was beginning to set, they had segmented the ruins and had uncovered several interesting relics, including a glass jar that was stained red and black with ash. The jar had been buried at the bottom of one of the freshly dug holes and lodged beneath a section of granite that had taken several of them to heave out of the hole.

_Why does this interest you? _The voice asked as June was carefully cleaning an old cooking pot with a fine brush.

June didn’t dare answer; hoping the voice would just go away.

_You wish to study dead civilizations – societies, cultures, even the gods. You treat us as though we were dead animals that pique your interest! Us gods are NOT dead – we are gods and we shall live forever! Digging through the ground for pure curiosity – you and your kind are no different from the thieves!_

Heat and anger flushed June’s cheeks and her grip on the brush tightened. Carefully, June removed the brush from the pot, taking deep breaths. Eventually, the Enchantress’s anger subsided, becoming a festering mass in the back of June’s mind. It worried her – that the Enchantress could affect her so much, but June ignored the bubbling anger for now. She would learn as much as she could then deal with whatever this was later.

The shadows grew longer and Dr. Arnaud finally stood up from a series of runes he had been examining. “I’d say it’s about time to call it a day. We don’t want to be driving along those cliffs at night. I’d rather stay alive another day.”

June and the others packed up their supplies and instruments, carefully tying them down in the back of the truck. The few things small enough to take back to the base were strapped next to them, packaged in special cases to keep them as untouched as possible.

The sun descended rapidly, and by the time they were back on the cliffs, only the last rays of light were still snaking over the hills. Beneath them, June could see the small village they’d passed earlier. A large bonfire blazed in the center of the village, surrounded by small prickles of light that June assumed were old electric lanterns.

The truck suddenly shook and jerked forward, sending June scrabbling against the dashboard. The driver came to a shuddering stop to a chorus of swearing from the back seats.

“Is everyone alright?” June looked behind her, but everyone looked fine, though somewhat shaken up.

“Everything is good,” the driver said, laughing nervously, “We must have just gone through a pothole a little too fast. Everything is good.”

June didn’t find the driver overly convincing. “I’d better check the back; make sure nothing broke through its ropes.”

When she came around the back of the truck, there was indeed a large chunk of earth bitten out of the road, hidden in the dark shadows. Cursing quietly, June shone a flashlight through the back of the truck. A large tripod had escaped its bounds and rolled across the truck and onto their archeological findings. Popping the flashlight into her mouth, June lifted the heavy tripod and shifted it back into place. Beneath the tripod, strewn along the truck’s floor like shards of glittering jewels, was the broken jar.

June leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the truck, taking deep breathes. “Ok,” she muttered, “I can salvage this. Do any of you still have gloves on you?”

But none of the colleagues heard her over their discussion of what the hotel was brewing for dinner that night. 

June stomped back towards the front of the vehicle, “Item #4 broke, does anybody have some gloves? I want to get the pieces back into the box.”

“Oh, yeah, I have some.” Dr. Arnaud reached into his pockets but paused as the driver spoke.

“What,” he asked, “is that?”

June turned and the others leaned out of the truck to look at what the driver was pointing at. Out of the back of the truck oozed a string of lime that pooled on the ground and took on a large mass. The mass sparkled and shone, almost as though small bursts of flame were being ignited. It almost looked like someone had invented gelatinous fire. The slime jiggled and slid forward. With each second it gathered speed and was moving away from the truck.

“It…it’s moving.”

June nodded, mutely. Within seconds, the slime clawed its way to the end of the road and slipped down and out of sight. June hesitantly took a few steps and leaned out over the cliff’s edge. The thing was moving almost like a slug, but with unbelievable speed down the cliff. Towards the village.

“Oh, this isn’t going to be good.”

The archeologists looked at each other, stunned.

“What do we do?” asked Dr. Arnaud.

No one knew how to answer. The archeologists watched the burning sludge speed down the hill. It quickly would’ve become too small to see if it weren’t for the occasional explosion of sparks that erupted from it. She could feel the Enchantress moving in the back of her mind, restless. The sludge reached the village and June held her breath, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happened.

June let out her breath and turned back to her colleagues, laughing nervously. They looked bewildered, uncertain about whether they should trust what they just saw.

“Should we…head back to the hotel?” the driver asked.

“Yes, please.” June said, seemingly the only one able to speak.

The driver quickly jumped back behind the driver’s wheel. June opened the car door, and that’s when the screaming started. The town below them had erupted into flames, the fire spreading from one house to the next with incredible speed. It lit up the land below them with unearthly orange light. The screams of burning people filled the air, a raucous cacophony of burning wood and screaming voices.

June could feel the heat from the flames as though her own skin were on fire. Her lungs felt like they were filling with smoke even though they were too far away for that to be true. She turned back to the others, their faces lit with orange light, their eyes wide and mouths open.

“We have to help them! We can’t just let them die!” June screamed, but Dr. Arnaud was pounding on the back of the driver’s seat to “Go! Go!” and the others were covering their ears to block out the screaming.

“We can’t leave!” June cried.

Dr, Arnaud grabbed at her, pulling her towards him. “Get in the damn car, June!”

She twisted, jerking her arm from his grasp and falling to the ground. She quickly picked herself up and began running blindingly down the hill and towards the burning village. She distantly heard voices calling out her name, but she ignored them. The ground was dry and dusty beneath her pounding feet, but June kept going even though her ankles would give out and she would roll every few feet. She didn’t know why she was doing this, but the voice in her head and the adrenaline in her blood urged her on.

The heat was unbearable as she reached the edge of the village. The fire had consumed almost everything, burning walls collapsing into streets and blocking the escape of those trapped inside. June pushed her way into the burning village, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs. Through a burning house, she could see a group of villagers passing buckets of water from a well and throwing it onto the closest fire. The fire they were attacking sizzled and seemed to be about to go out. June surged forward to help but was knocked aside as a piece of burning debris blocked her way.

She watched helplessly as they villagers fought to extinguish the flames around them. Suddenly a tower of flame shot into the sky. The flame and smoke mixed and merged to become a monster that loomed over the village. Claws of molten lava dug into the burning houses. A face formed from the smoke, eyes of deep red staring down at them. June stared back, the fire around her forgotten as the monster formed before her eyes.

“What…what is that?” she asked.

The voice answered – the voice that sounded so like her own. _A demon, the child of a great fire god_. The voice said the fire god’s name in a language June couldn’t understand, but the name conjured images of brimstone and burning flesh. _It is weak,_ Enchantress continued. _Barely a demon at all._

“Weak” was not what June would have called the hulking beast of lava and flame. The villagers had abandoned their efforts and ran, trampling over one another and grabbing at burning objects with bare hands in order to escape the eyes of the fire demon.

The demon roared, spewing fire from it’s belly, sending a tongue of flame wrapping around the village, trapping them all inside. Some of the villagers kept fighting, their already charred hands trying to push through the fire. But most pulled their families closer, crouching among the smoke, coughing up black gunk and turning their faces uselessly away from the flames. June would feel the flames licking at her own skin. They were all going to burn alive.

“Please,” June’s voice cracked. Her mouth was dry, and the words stuck in her throat. “Help them, please.”

_No._ Enchantress said. _It is the way of the world – for men to fall before gods._

“Not these people!”

June could feel the Enchantress’s presence retreating to a far corner in her mind. 

The smoke was filling June’s lungs as breathing became harder and harder. Her vision blurred, everything becoming a sea of red before her eyes. An errant flame caught the edge of her sleeve, setting it alight. With a gasp of pain, June tried to stamp out the sleeve in the dirt, but even the dirt felt hot beneath her hands.

June cried out with the last of her breath. “If I die here, you’ll die with me!”

June didn’t know if that was true – maybe her death would release Enchantress; maybe it would kill her – but she had nothing left to try.

June felt a flicker of concern in her mind. The sorceress didn’t know either – maybe she would die when the vessel she inhabited was destroyed.

_I will help you_, the voice said. _Just call for me._

“No, no.” June responded, but she didn’t know if she was speaking out loud anymore. She was curled against the ground, the sobbing of women and crackling of fire the only things she could hear. “You have to save everyone! Promise me, you will save everyone. Or I won’t say your name and we will die here together!”

Anger that wasn’t her own pounded through June’s mind, flooding out the fear.

_Fine, I shall destroy the fire demon and stop it from taking the human’s insignificant lives. Call for me._

June could barely breathe, her face pressed into the ground to escape the heat. “Enchantress,” she whispered through chapped lips.

The change was instantaneous. June was suddenly shunted into the back of her own mind. She could see through her own eyes and feel her arms and legs move, but she wasn’t in control. A knife appeared in her hand, surprisingly cold. Except it wasn’t her hand. It was the hand of an ancient deity who had spilled the blood of uncountable innocent people.

Enchantress stood tall among the flames, immune to the fire that raged around her. Her mind felt oddly peaceful as she looked around, as though standing surrounded by flames was familiar. June felt her body move, swaying in a way wholly unfamiliar to her. Her shoulders hunched and relaxed as she walked through the flames, the knife held loosely in her hand. The villagers cowered away as she passed, and June felt pride and contentment wash over her. That was where humans belonged; on their knees before her.

As the Enchantress walked through the village, embers crackling beneath her feet, June caught sight of her own arm. Her beige jacket had disappeared, replaced by a thin gauntlet of chains. Her skin showed through the gaps, almost black from the dirt and soot. Hair that was not hers wrapped around her arm, moving as it if had a will of its own.

June was shocked back into the present when a rasping, guttural voice cut through the air, speaking an undecipherable language. It was her own voice addressing the fire demon. The very flames around her seemed to grow silent as she spoke. June couldn’t understand what the Enchantress was saying, but flashes of temples and graveyards, battlegrounds full of dying men flickered before her eyes.

The Enchantress had reached the middle of the village and stood atop the well, her raised arms pointing up at the fire demon above. The Enchantress ceased speaking; her jaw snapping shut with a ferocity that made June flinch inside her own mind.

There was silence. The flames shrunk and stopped spreading across the village, but the fire continued to burn. The demon’s eyes darkened, as though embers pulsed deep within. Its mouth opened, but instead of flames, a hissing spitting voice emanated from deep within its maw. The voice sounded like a thousand raging fires. June tried to take back control, turn and run from that terrifying voice, but she was trapped in the Enchantress’s steel mind.

Laughter echoed around her, cold and piercing. It was the Enchantress, laughing openly at the fire demon looming over her. Enchantress spoke and more images flashed in June’s mind. The fire demon being whipped up in a tremendous wind, being pushed down to the ground, corkscrewing within the tornado until it was stuffed down the dark tunnel of the well and into the water’s depths below. June could even hear the sizzle of embers on water as the fire demon was extinguished.

The images cleared, and nothing had changed. The fire demon still loomed over the Enchantress, tongues of flame erupting from his body and lighting up the night sky. But something inside June had changed. She was beginning to feel hopeful. If the Enchantress could really do what she was threatening - make the elements bend to her will - maybe they could save the village!

The demon responded to the threat the way demons do – he attacked. Faster than June thought possible for so large a creature, the demons fiery arm shot down towards them, talons of lava clawing the air. June didn’t even have time to scream before the fire was upon them. Flames engulfed the Enchantress, greedily licking at her skin and hair. The very air was on fire.

But the fire didn’t burn. It was warm against her skin, but not searing. The flames caressed her face and hands like a long-lost lover. Enchantress raised her hand, and with the flick of her wrist, she threw the fire away. The flames retreated immediately, and June stared in utter amazement as the fire demons’ arm was turned back upon him. The flames wrapped around the demon, constricting him like burning ropes. It was as though the Enchantress was choking the fire demon with his own flames. The demon bellowed, the ground shaking with his anger. Within moments, the demon had regained control and ripped through the flames that were holding him in place. The demon lunged again, his entire being surging towards the Enchantress and village below. 

But as he did, the Enchantress spoke. A whisper of magic. The air shivered. Suddenly, the demon was caught up in a whirlwind of twisting air. The wind spun faster and faster, and the demon shrank as the wind suffocated his flames. He was pulled through the air, his shrieks muffled by the torrential wind. The wind pushed and pulled at him, shredding him apart until the demon was cocooned in the twisting air. The miniature typhoon shrank, carrying the demon within. It stopped in front of the Enchantress, hovering over the well. The demon inside was a dark shadow, the size of a child. The last thing June saw was his red eyes staring back at her, filled with hate and pain. Then the typhoon shot down the well. There was the hissing of water extinguishing the last of the flames and then silence.

It was over.

June let out a sob of relief. She had done it! The demon was destroyed!

The Enchantress turned towards the village. It was still burning. The Enchantress didn’t feel the heat of the flames and ignored the cries of the people, so they didn’t penetrate into her mind and June had forgotten about them.

_The fire_, June spoke for the first time from within her own mind.

She could feel the Enchantress hesitating, reveling in the burning flames and her control over June’s body and mind. Finally, the Enchantress waved her hand, creating a symbol in the air, and the flames that engulfed the village shrunk and disappeared, leaving only smoke and ash.

_Thank you_, June thought. _Thank you thank you thank you thank you_

“Thank you.” The words came from June’s lips.

The Enchantress had retreated and suddenly June was in charge of her own body again. Any energy the Enchantress had went with her, and June collapsed to the ground, her back leaning against the well. It was hot through her jacket, but not unbearably so.

June stayed there, unable to muster the energy to move. A few villagers returned to their smoldering homes, giving June and the well a wide berth. None of them dared to even look at her, but June didn’t care. She had done it. She had saved their lives.

A voice called her name and June looked up; her vision blurry from exhaustion. Dr. Arnaud was staring down at her.

June forced herself to speak, glad to hear her own voice again. “Take me home.”


	8. Enchantress - Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June returns to America and finds a way to defeat the Enchantress.

June rubbed her eyes, resting her head against the windowpane of the slow-moving bus. Since returning from Peru, she been getting blinding headaches whenever she ignored the Enchantress. Although, she had managed some control over the being living in her mind over the past few weeks by focusing on her research whenever the voice started up again.

The Enchantress had been quiet the first week back and June had almost convinced herself that she had imagined it all – the green eyed woman; the cave; the fire demon. But then, eleven days after returning to America, the voice had returned. June chose to ignore the voice and that’s when the headaches started. She’d been getting them every day now, and they seemed to be getting worse. June had hoped that the voice and headaches would eventually lose their power, but the opposite seemed to be true.

So, June had decided to visit her friend; a clinical psychiatry professor at her alma mater. At first, June pretended it was just to catch up, but soon she was telling her friend about everything, including the voice still echoing around her head. Since then, they would meet every week or so to talk. Her friend had suggested trying a few medications, but since she couldn’t officially be June’s therapist, she wasn’t able to prescribe any. The only way June would be able to get any medications would be if she went to another psychiatrist. 

One who might think she was crazy, who would lock her up forever.

June wasn’t sure if the paranoia was her own or the Enchantress’s, but June found herself distrusting almost everyone she met. She’d also developed an aversion to being alone in small spaces. She’d started taking the bus to and from the university because she couldn’t stand being in her car with just the voice. She’d started listening to loud metal music to drown out her own thoughts and the Enchantress’s with them. Her friend thought this was an accumulation of years of stress that were finally catching up to her. June wanted to believe her – wanted to believe that the voice would go away and she’d just imagined it all.

But, even now, the voice was whispering in the back of her mind, the headache waxing and waning with her whispers. The voice got louder and louder, and with it the pain grew. June pressed her head harder against the window, trying to focus on her breathing and the mumble of people around her. But the pain didn’t go away – it got worse and worse – to the point that June was certain the Enchantress was trying to hammer out of her skull. June bit her lip to keep from screaming, the blood tangy in her mouth.

Then the pain stopped.

June took a few deeps breath, waiting for the pain to return. But it didn’t. Instead, the Enchantress spoke clearly.

_You lied to me. You said many people have no god. But they do. They do. These ‘phones’ they refuse to set down, the screens that they can never look away from, your entire city is filled with electricity and power and you worship it._

June waited a moment before answering. Her friend had told her not to engage with the voice. But if it meant keeping the pain at bay for a while longer, she would answer this once.

“It’s not a god,” she whispered. “Our technology is man-made; not some superstition born from ignorance.”

The Enchantress ignored her. _Your gods of Technology. You cannot deny you worship it. Without it, you would not survive. And many of you fear it – what it can do. Technology can destroy nations. Even this city has a grid of wires overhead as though you have trapped yourselves in a net._

The idea of the electrical wires falling onto the city, sparking with fire, made June shudder. Whenever someone light a cigarette, June would have to look away, remembering the searing pain of the fire demon and it’s hate-filled eyes. The Enchantress chuckled in her mind, sharing in the vision of the fire demon showering the city with flames. 

Suddenly, June’s skin tingled and her eyes snapped up, searching for something. She didn’t know what made her suddenly wary, but the Enchantress had also perked up with an unexpected interest in her surroundings. There was nothing out of the ordinary – men and women standing on the grimy floor of the bus, a child playing on a handheld console, a woman obnoxiously popping bubble-gum. But June’s skin prickled with warning.

_Madness. Madness wrapped in metal._

The cryptic remark meant nothing to June. But then, she glanced out the window and saw what was making her hair stand on end. A large van was hurtling towards them, speeding down the wrong side of the street. It swerved and zigzagged, running up on the sidewalk. People jumped out of the way, but June wasn’t sure if everyone made it in time. The van sped back onto the road, red smearing it’s front bumper. The van was headed straight for them.

June watch, paralyzed as the van sped closer and closer. Others noticed the commotion and saw the van. Screams filled the bus as people clawed at each other to get to the door. The bus driver desperately pulled to one side, but the street was thin. There was nowhere for the bus to go.

The van was moments away when June came to her senses.

“Enchantress!” she cried.

An electric current ran across her skin as clothes were replaced with chains and jewels.

Once again, June was shunted to the back of her own mind. But this time, she was ready. She kept a stronger hold on her own thoughts and body, letting the Enchantress’s power flow through her. Rather than competing for control their minds and bodies were as one as they raised their arms and shouted a word. The van flew into the air, its momentum carrying it up and over the bus. It landed behind them with a deafening screech of metal on metal. They were safe.

June turned to the other passengers, a smile on her lips. But the people stared at her with fear and disgust. One woman was wailing, her wide eyes staring at June. A man was hammering on the bus doors.

“Please, don’t be afraid,” June tried to say. But the words came out garbled, in the ancient language only the Enchantress knew.

Power still thrummed through her veins, spreading out and into the bus around her. June could feel the humming of the engine in her lungs, the machinery pressing against her skin as though it were a part of her.

Despite the pull magic, the fear evident on the faces around her scared her. June didn’t want to be feared. She tried to pull the magic back, encase it back into her body and lock the Enchantress away. But there was resistance. The Enchantress fought back, pushing against June’s mind. For a moment, June wrestled with the Enchantress, then all control was ripped from her as though she were a defenseless child.

June could do nothing but watch as the Enchantress swept her hand along the bus railing. She chanted, her gravelly voice echoing loudly through the silent bus. With a scream of power, the Enchantress shot out her hands. Electricity poured from her palms, shooting into the nearest passenger. Black bubbles appeared on the man’s face and arms like boiling acid. He screamed, but his mouth was quickly covered with boils and black tar. The electricity shot from him to the next passenger and the next, until everyone was had black patches growing over their skin.

June cried out within her mind, desperately fighting back control, but there was nothing she could do. The people around her fell, their black bodies going limp. Soon, everyone was left dead or dying. The Enchantress stepped over a twitching body and through the side of the bus. She phased through the metal as though it were simply air.

“Why? Why would you do that?” June asked as the Enchantress strode down the middle of the street.

_I did not promise you anything this time, mortal. I do as I please._

The Enchantress walked to a house, phasing through the door. She ignored the screams of the family sitting at their dining room table. The Enchantress raised her hand, ready to speak a word that would kill them.

June felt the electricity sweep through her body again, ready to explode out. She couldn’t let these people die too. No one else would become a victim of the Enchantress!

June screamed, tearing at the chains that held her in place, swearing and fighting against her cage. But she was fighting against a concrete barrier. The Enchantress was too strong and had total control. But June would not give up. She pushed and prodded and screamed. June felt an ache in her forehead, just like the ones Enchantress gave her. At the sudden pain, something in Enchantress’s mind slipped and June poured into the crack, pushing her way to the surface. In that tiny moment of weakness, June took back control from the Enchantress.

She lowered her hand. The family stared at her, shock and fear on their faces. June’s stomach lurched and she felt like she was going to throw up. Without thinking, June pulled open the door next to her, ran in and locked the door behind her. She was in a tiny bathroom with blue tiles and a large mirror over the sink.

The face she saw in the mirror wasn’t her own. The Enchantress’s eyes stared back at her, green and angry. She was staring at a monster. June rinsed her face with water, clawing at her own skin. When she looked back at the mirror, her own face stared back at her. She looked pale and scared. Her shuddering breath fogged the mirror. On the other side of the door, she could hear the family talking in loud voices. If they broke their way in, June didn’t know what would happen.

But one thing was clear. She couldn’t control the Enchantress. Not without help. With shaking hands, June pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed her friend’s number.

* * *

The psych ward was loud. No matter where June sought shelter, she could hear the screams and moans of the other patients. Sometimes she thinks it’s the Enchantress screaming in her head, but she can’t hear the Enchantress anymore. The blue pills the orderlies hand out every morning and evening keep the Enchantress bogged down under a heavy mist.

But everything else is misty too. June’s own thoughts move slowly and thinking too much was hard. Sometimes she thinks about archeology, but the research and theories she had known like the back of her hand were gone, replaced by the mist. Even the thick leather of the couch she sat on felt distant. Like it wasn’t really her sitting on the couch, but a human shell.

June absentmindedly scratched at a nail that protruded from the wall. The orderlies must not have noticed it, otherwise it would have been hammered in. June picked and picked at that nail. She didn’t know how much time passed. People moved around her, but she didn’t noticed them.

It must be time for the meds soon, June thought.

Something in the back of her mind flared with panic, fighting against the mist at the thought of those little blue pills. But it was immediately squashed down.

Someone sat down next to her on the couch. June could vaguely feel the depression in the couch where they sat, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She kept picking at the nail.

Pick pick pick.

Pick pick pick.

A dull pain shot up June’s hand and she held back a small cry. Her fingernail had cracked, half of it dangling from a sliver of skin. Blood welled up and dribbled down her finger. The sudden pain cleared June’s mind and she quickly staunched the blood on the black leather of the couch. If she got blood on her teal scrubs, they would start asking questions. June didn’t like their questions.

A small cough caught her attention and June looked up at the person next to her. It was a woman she had befriended her first week here, before the meds had kicked in. Her name was Farah. June tried to remember what she knew about Farah. Farah had been a healer, a woman with odds tastes but a fascinating intellect. They’d used to argue over Greek mythology and ancient Haitian rituals. June had even told Farah about the Enchantress. Farah had a sharp glint in her eye, unlike the other patients who’s faces held an odd blank look that made June uncomfortable.

I must have the same blank look now, June thought.

The mist was beginning to return, but June dug her broken nail into the sofa. Her finger burned, but June didn’t let up. She needed to break out of the fog.

Farah didn’t stop June from hurting herself. Instead, she leaned closer. She covered part of her mouth so that orderlies wouldn’t see her speaking.

“I thought you left me to become a mindless drone like the others. You need to stop taking the medication – it’s not making you any better. I know you’re afraid of what the sorceress can do, but I spoke to my brother, Franz. I told you about him, remember? He’s a healer down in New Orleans. He knows how to help you.”

June nodded, the memories of Farah’s brother floating to the surface. He was a medicine man who sold tinctures and tonics. June tried to speak, but her tongue felt heavy. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had used her voice.

“I can’t stay here,” June finally muttered, her voice horse. “If I stay on these drugs, in this place, I really will go crazy.”

“Good,” Farah said, leaning in even closer. “He says you need to pluck reeds from a creek at midnight under a new moon. You need sage and rosemary; just a little would be enough. Put everything in a bath and fill it with water and stay submerged until the sorceress weakens. When she does, add the blood of an innocent.”

“Blood of an-!”

Farah quickly shushed her as an orderly walked by, keeping a watchful eye on them. The dull ache in June’s finger had subsided, no matter how hard she dug it into the sofa. She could feel the mist returning, slowing her thoughts. June tried to respond, but her tongue seemed to roll itself into knots when she tried.

Farah suddenly gripped June’s forearm with surprising strength. The white scars on Farah’s wrist stood out as her fingers tightened.

“Reeds. Sage. Rosemary. Blood,” she hissed. “The next new moon is in four days. You need to stop taking your meds or you’ll never get out of here.”

June’s eyes glossed over, becoming unfocused. The mist was taking over.

“Listen to me! You can fight this demon, June. Just four more days.”

“Desir!” An orderly suddenly shouted from across the room. “Hands off, now!”

Farah pulled her hand away from June instantly. She gave June a meaningful look before standing and walking over to two men yelling at the television across the room. June didn’t see the look. She was desperately trying to keep hold of what Farah had told her.

Don’t take the meds. Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

Don’t take the meds. Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

Even through the fog that once again engulfed her mind, June knew that if she took her meds, she would be stuck in this place forever. The Enchantress would never be free. But she would never be free either. The Enchantress had made her a prisoner in her own mind, and now the meds were doing the exact same thing.

Don’t take the meds. Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

Don’t take the meds. Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

Her chant was interrupted by a grainy announcement that came over the loudspeaker. “All patients, please proceed to Desk 3 to collect your medications.”

The announcement repeated for several seconds as June stared down at her hand. The broken nail had fallen off and she could see the pink skin underneath where the nail had been. It was soft and sensitive.

The other patients slowly collected themselves and shuffled over to the desk. June stood and joined them. Her feet dragged on the floor and the announcement rung in her ears.

Don’t take the meds. Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

* * *

Getting out of the psych ward had been easier than June expected. She had voluntarily entered the ward on the advice of her friend, so she could also leave voluntarily. However, the amount of time it takes to get an exit request granted ranged from two days to two weeks. And June couldn’t wait two weeks. She needed to get out of the ward and immediately deal with the Enchantress while the last effects of the drugs kept her powerless.

So, June immediately submitted her request and spend the next few days being a model patient. She needed the doctors to believe she was ready to leave. June masked anything to do with the Enchantress. She said the Enchantress had been a hallucination brought on by stress and the Peruvian sun. June was compliant in every way. She made sure to attend every group session that took place and actively participate. When the drugs had been clouding her mind, she’d spent most of her time lying on her bed or wandering through the ward, never speaking. Now, June made sure to never stay in her room except when sleeping and spoke openly with the other patients. She was the perfect little patient.

When the morning of the new moon came around and she hadn’t heard back from the hospital staff, June started getting desperate. She couldn’t ask for the Enchantress’s help. Although her voice had gotten louder and more demanding since June stopped taking the meds, she was still powerless. Even if June could call upon the Enchantress, she wouldn’t have. She didn’t know what the Enchantress would do once released. And June would never again release her.

Then, on the fourth day, an orderly approached her and told her to get ready. She would be leaving that evening and to call someone to come pick her up from the ward. If not, the staff could call a taxi for her. June chose the taxi. She hadn’t told anyone that she was in a psych facility, and they wouldn’t understand her request to head to a river either. This was something she had to do alone. Of course, she was never really alone with the Enchantress’s voice echoing around her head.

The taxi arrived just as the sun was setting. June dressed in her normal clothes, gave Farah a quick hug and checked out of the psych ward. The taxi smelled of cigarettes, so June rolled down the window and let the crisp air roll across her face. The air was fresh and, as June breathed in, she felt like things were finally going to be okay.

The air smelled of potential. Of a life without the Enchantress. Without the blue pills that filled her mind with fog. A life travelling the world making new discoveries of ancient civilizations. Everything was going to be okay.

June quickly stopped the taxi by a mega supermarket to buy rosemary and sage, then headed off again. The taxi travelled out of town to a small fast-running river that June had visited once when she was in university. She knew reeds grew along the river near the bottom of a small waterfall there.

June waited until the taxi left and then started scrabbling down the embankment towards the river. The sun had set, and the sky was black. A few stars winked down at her as she fumbled her way to the edge of the river. Something sharp cut across her shin, but June ignored it. She could deal with it later. Right now, she needed to get rid of the Enchantress.

_Never! I cannot be destroyed. I am a god!_

The voice was muffled, but June could still feel the seething anger radiating through her mind. June jumped into the river, letting the cold water shock her system and wash away the Enchantress’s madness. Her shin whinged, but not badly. With shaking hands, June started pulling reeds from the riverbank and tossing them back ashore. She pulled more and more reeds until her hands were shaking and her fingers were frozen stiff. Shivering, June pulled herself out of the river. She picked up the pile of reeds and started clambering up to the road. The reeds were slimy in her grip, so she held them close to her chest.

June’s shirt was soaked through by the time she reached the road. The wind blew through her. Her teeth sounded like a mattock rattling around in her head as she shivered. The street was empty. A single streetlight lit the road, bathing the black tar with yellow light.

Black tar bubbling across human skin.

June hugged the reeds closer, banishing the image from her mind. She needed to focus.

Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

And a bath. She needed somewhere to bathe. As far as June knew, there weren’t any hotels nearby. Besides, she had spent the last of her money on the taxi fare. And she doubted anyone would let in a soaking wet woman toting an armful of reeds anyway.

June chose a direction at random and started walking along the edge of the road. As she walked, a manic desperation took over her. Everything was numb from the cold. She needed somewhere to bathe. She needed to do whatever it took to be free again. Whatever it took.

June didn’t know how long she walked for. The sky was dark, and the street seemed to go on forever. The only sound was the whispering trees and her wet feet sloshing inside her shoes. She was exhausted, but she carried on. This was her only chance.

Finally, June turned around a bend and saw a light. A house was sitting in a distant field. Its lights were on, shining like a beacon in the darkness. June took a steadying breath and started towards the house.

As she approached, she realized just how large the house was. It sat elegantly in the center of a perfectly manicured lawn. Grey statues littered the lawn in what June assumed was supposed to be a fanciful design. The house itself towered over the few surrounding trees. Outdoor sconces illuminated the balconies with a soft light. White pillars held up the front of the house, leading to the porch. June kept walking towards the house, unsure about what to do. Would she just knock on the front door?

The sound of gravel crunching under tires came up the winding driveway and June ducked behind a tree just as a limo drove past her. The limo stopped in front of the large wooden doors. Two people – a man and a woman – exited the house. They were dressed beautifully, the man in a trim black and white tuxedo and the lady in a shimmering red dress. Gold rings flashed on her fingers as she took the man’s arm. The man led her to the limousine, where the driver popped out to open the door for them. The door was closed, the driver got back behind the wheel and the limo drove off.

Slowly, the lights in the house switched off, leaving the lawn and June in darkness. June waited behind the tree until all the lights were off, then headed for the front door. It was as if everything was on autopilot – her body moved without her really being aware of it. All June knew was that she needed to get rid of the Enchantress.

Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

June gently placed her hand on the doorknob and turned. June’s hand tingled, there was a soft click and the door slid open silently. June stood on the doorstep for a moment, baffled. Anger suddenly seared through June’s mind and she almost fell to her knees in pain. The Enchantress was hissing and swearing in her ancient language, pushing against June’s mind. But she couldn’t escape. The last dregs of the drugs were still in her system, preventing the Enchantress from taking control. But somehow, June had called upon the Enchantress’s power herself and unlocked the door. She had felt a little tingle of power in her hand, but she’d assumed it was just the feeling coming back to her frozen fingers.

Shaking this realization from her head, June stepped into the house and gently closed the door behind her. It didn’t matter if she could harness the Enchantress’s power. June would never truly be free with the Enchantress locked inside her.

The front foyer was large, with a grand staircase that looped around itself up to the second and third floors. Before stepping onto the carpeted stairs, June removed her wet shoes and socks. The squelching of her shoes on the stairs would be loud and she didn’t know if there was anyone left in the house. The carpet felt soft under her feet, almost like damp grass, as she ascended the staircase, the reeds still clutched to her chest.

June tried three doors on the second floor before finding a bathroom. The first was a library crowded with books, the second a playroom with several gaming system and a massive television. But the third had a bath. The tiles were cold against June’s feet as she entered. They were grey with little flower detailing. A large mirror hung above the sink and counter. In the center of the room was a free-standing bath, it’s golden clubbed feet standing out against the drab tiles.

June fell to her knees at the edge of the bathtub and started laying the reeds around the edge, layering the sides until they were thick with reeds. With a shaking hand, June pulled out the small containers of sage and rosemary and dumped them into the middle of the tub. She turned the tap at the head of the bathtub and warm water started to fill the tub. As the water rose, the room filled with the smell of spices and dirt. But the tub was large and would take a while to fill to the brim. June would have to wait.

Stretching out sore muscles, June stood and walked over to the mirror. She hadn’t looked in the mirror since the last time the Enchantress had possessed her. Her face was more worn out and gaunt than she remembered. The hollows under her cheeks stood out, like she hadn’t eaten in days. Mud smudged her face and her eyes were wide and wild. But determined. She would do this. She would defeat the Enchantress. As June stared at her reflection, she became oddly aware of her blood pulsing, as though she could feel every heartbeat.

Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood. Blood of an innocent.

The pulsing grew stronger. June’s legs shook with the power of the pulsing, but it slowly faded. It must be the Enchantress’s magic trying to escape.

_Not my magic. A beating heart. There is an innocent here._

The Enchantress’s voice was louder than it had ever been before. June could feel her getting stronger with each passing moment. She had to hurry.

Reeds, sage, rosemary, blood.

If there was someone in the house, it wouldn’t hurt to look. She wouldn’t do anything. Of course, she wouldn’t do anything.

June left the bathtub to fill and wandered out into the hallway. There were several doors she hadn’t tried at the end of the hallway. Silently, June padded down the hallway and slowly opened each door, inspecting what was inside. A bedroom with an empty canopy bed. A home office with a quietly whirring computer. Another bedroom with glow in the dark stars stuck to the walls. And someone lying asleep in the bed.

This room was smaller than the others, but large enough for a desk, bureau and bookcase. June tentatively stepped further into the room. There was no moonlight streaming in through the filmy curtains, but a nightlight by the edge of the bed lit up the room. A book on space was splayed open at the base of the bookcase and pieces of Lego were scattered to one side of the room.

A boy lay in the bed. Dishevelled blonde hair stuck out from under the covers, shining golden in the light emanating from the nightlight. Lines creased his forehead as he frowned at nothing. Maybe he was having a nightmare.

June took another step forward, her body moving automatically. Something cool was in her hand. June looked down and froze. She was holding a knife. Not just any knife, but the Enchantress’s knife. The handle pulsed gently against her palm, as though it had a heart of its own.

A thought came unbidden to June’s mind. All she needed was an innocent’s blood. She was so close to freedom. She wouldn’t need that much blood, just enough to defeat the Enchantress. But the boy would wake up and call for help. Probably call the police. And then they would come and take her away before she could soak in the bath long enough to be rid of the Enchantress and it would all be for nothing. If June took the boy’s blood, she would have to make sure he didn’t wake up.

June took another step forward. The knife was heavy in her hand. She could feel the Enchantress urging her on.

“If I do this, you’ll die,” June whispered.

_I am a god. I will not die from some petty ritual. But if you kill the child, what will happen to the free June? Free of me you may be, but you will be a murderer. Are you willing to murder for freedom?_

June didn’t answer. She stared down at the sleeping boy. She was close enough to see his chest rise and fall with each breath. Something on the boy’s bedside table caught her eye. There was a small model of a dinosaur skeleton and several rocks shaped into arrowheads. Flecks of dirt still clung to the rocks.

June turned on her heel and walked out of the room. She kept her pace calm and composed. She kept her mind blank. June knew that if she let everything she had been through this past month wash over her, she would run. Run out of this house and away from it all. But she couldn’t run from the Enchantress. There was only one thing left to do.

June went back to the bathroom and turned off the water. The hot water filled the bathtub and steam filled the air. June slowly undressed, letting the steam warm her cold bones. The humid air created little droplet that ran down her chest and legs as the last of her clothing was discarded on the floor. Naked, June stood in front of the mirror. The mirror was coated in a thin layer of condensation, but she could make out her face staring back at her.

For the first time in a long time, June felt in control.

In one swift motion, June conjured the knife and sliced across her palm. The cut was deep and blood instantly swelled from the wound. June squeezed her hand tight, letting the blood fall into a small shaving bowl on the counter. She picked up the bowl and strode to the bathtub, ignoring the shock and pain in her hand. June wasn’t innocent, but this would have to do. She needed to act quickly.

June could feel the Enchantress fighting, pushing against the weakening barriers of the medication. She would get out soon.

June placed the bowl by the side of the bathtub and climbed gingerly into the water. The cut on her shin stung as she lowered herself into the murky water, but the pain quickly disappeared. June kept her bleeding hand over the edge of the tub. The blood couldn’t be added, not yet. Not until the Enchantress had weakened.

The water burned her skin, but the heat was welcome. The smell of river dirt and spices was strong, and June relaxed as it washed over her. The combination of warm water and sweet-smelling flowers made her sleepy and June allowed her eyes to drift shut. Her hand would occasionally throb with pain, but it was quickly swept away by the soothing water.

June didn’t know how long she was in the bath. She must have slept because when her eyes opened, sunlight was starting to stream in through the window. The water had cooled and the steam was gone.

June’s voice echoed eerily through the bathroom. “Are you there?”

She didn’t dare say the Enchantress’s name.

“Tell me! Are you still there?”

There was no response, but June could feel a small niggling at the back of her mind where the Enchantress usually was. It felt like a dim light had replaced the sun. The Enchantress was weak!

June was too caught up in her own thoughts to hear the clattering of combat boots up the staircase towards the bathroom.

June grabbed the shaving bowl lying on the floor. The blood inside had congealed and gone black, but it was still liquid. This was it. The last ingredient.

The door to the bathroom blasted open and men in army uniforms streamed into the bathroom, surrounding June. She didn’t know what was happening. All she knew was that she needed to finish this. June let the bowl drop from her fingers, her blood dripping into the cold bathwater. The misty grey water turned black. The reeds shriveled up and died, collapsing into the water. 

June was alone in her mind. The Enchantress was gone. It was over. Sobs wracked through her body, uncaring that unknown men had guns trained on her. She was free. Finally, finally free. She didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Then the voice spoke, snide and commanding. _I am not gone from your mind. Now you are in mine. You can never defeat me, child. I am a GOD!_

The world spun. Everything blurred and June felt like she was going to throw up. The power of the Enchantress filled the air around her and June could feel every particle that hung in the air. Something brushed against the air and June looked up. A man stood at the bottom of the bath; a rifle lowered across his chest.

He didn’t look afraid.

June stared up at him. “Help me.”


	9. Rick Flag - Soldier & Scientist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick Flag flies out to Belle Reve to meet Amanda Waller and discuss the creation of Task Force X (AKA the Suicide Squad).

Colonel Rick Flag had just returned from an elite task force mission when he first heard the words “Task Force X”. The mission had been taxing and difficult, so he was happy to be back in the United States for a few weeks reprieve before being shipped out again.

Rick had planned on spending the rest of his vacation holed up with his girlfriend in their ratty apartment eating fast food and catching up on TV shows. Rick had a thing for cooking shows, though he couldn’t cook anything himself. June was even worse – she tended to set things on fire whenever she stepped near an oven.

But, he’d got the call last night that he was expected at a military black site the next morning and their plans had to be cancelled. Rick knew who was requesting his presence – only one woman had the power to send for him without notice – the Director of ARGUS, Amanda Waller. 

Rick woke up that morning and felt June’s warmth next to him, he hated her. June’s hair was in disarray and one arm was thrown over his back. Carefully, Rick pushed back her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Every morning, Rick was amazed by the woman sleeping next to him. He had never met anyone like June before. She was radiant and sharp, and her smile made him weak at the knees. And she was so strong. Her strength had been obvious from the day he found her in that house on the edge of Midway City, fighting against the Enchantress.

He had requested to be the one to tell June about the Enchantress’s heart. ARGUS had sent a troupe of scientists and soldiers to the cave where June first met the Enchantress and they had found the sorceress’s heart. With her heart in their possession, the Enchantress could be controlled. Rick had been visiting her for a few weeks in quarantine, just to keep her company, when they found the heart. When Rick had told June that the Enchantress could be controlled – that June would be free to become part of society again – seeing the smile on her face was the moment Rick realized he was in love with Dr. June Moone. He continued to visit her after she left quarantine and moved into an apartment of her own, and soon discovered that June had started feeling the same way towards him.

Now, Rick looked forward to coming home to her. She was the reason he wanted to come back from the dangerous missions. He knew some soldiers thought that having someone back home is a weakness. Hell, he used to think that too. But after meeting June, Rick knows it’s the opposite. He’s fighting harder than ever. Fighting to come back to June. Fighting to see that smile brighten her face when he walks through the door. Rick had wanted to spend the week with her and see that smile every morning, but now Waller was calling him away and for that, he hated her. But he was a soldier at his core, so he obeyed the orders.

His suspicion that it was ARGUS who summoned him were confirmed when the plane landed down in a private Louisiana airport. There was only one black site in Louisiana – the Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary. Of course, the penitentiary, much like ARGUS, did not officially exist. Anyone who ended up in there ceased to exist as well. It was the hole where the government threw away the worst of the worst.

Rick was ushered past the trucks and guards and into a small waiting room. The entire penitentiary was a fortress – one that was made to keep people in as well as out. Rick showed his military ID and did a retina scan before a visitors’ badge was clipped to his vest. A box was provided for his weapons, so he reluctantly handed over his Glock 17 and Winkler combat knife. It had been years since Rick hadn’t had a weapon strapped to his hip or concealed in his boot and he felt naked walking through the dank hallways. He even wore his sidearm at home. This had been an issue in past relationships, but Rick found June preferred him keeping his weapons close, though he hated the reason why. She still didn’t trust herself to be in control.

Rick was escorted down the hallways by several armed men. He passed cell after cell. Most were quiet and Rick suspected they were empty or the people inside of them had died and no one had bothered to clean up the bodies. ARGUS was a protocol driven organization, but Rick knew the men on the ground hardly ever followed the protocols – especially the soldiers recruited for a job like this. Guarding the damned would make any man lose his mind.

Rick heard noises from a few of the cells, so he knew at least some of the prisoners were still alive. He heard fists hitting a punching bag from one. The splashing of water and growling from another. As they rounded a corner, Rick even thought he heard someone humming a haunting tune. It sounded like a young woman singing a lullaby.

The humming disappeared as the armed escort stopped in front of an unmarked door at the end of a hallway. Two men stood on either side of the door; rifles held loosely in their hands. One of them knocked, then motioned for Rick to go through.

Rick entered the room, the door swinging shut behind him. Sitting at a large desk, stoically typing on a laptop, was Amanda Waller. She didn’t look up when he entered, her dark eyes frozen on the screen in front of her. By now, Rick knew not to interrupt Waller when she was focused, so he waited. The sound of clicking keys echoed eerily through the silent office for several minutes before Waller leaned back with a sigh and took in the man standing before her.

“Sit, sit,” she said, motioning to the chair across from her.

Rick slid into the chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee. “I had to turn in my weapons at the gate.”

Waller waved a dismissive hand. “That’s standard procedure for everyone here if they’re not on guard duty. We can’t risk the inmates getting their hands on a weapon.”

Rick nodded, though he was certain that Waller’s handgun were strapped to her hip at this very moment.

Waller leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk, her fingers steepled, and Rick knew it was time to shut up and listen.

“I have a matter of national security to discuss with you,” she said. “Within the month, I will be proposing the creation of a new task force to the security counsel. Task Force X. This task force will be comprised of the metahumans incarcerated here. In exchange, they will be granted commuted sentences for their participation in these missions. And you are the man I have chosen to lead the task force. You’re the finest special forces officer that the United States Military has ever produced, and this task force requires the best soldiers to contain the metahumans.”

Rick stared at her blankly. Metahumans? And not just any metahumans, but the criminals that were already written off as too dangerous for society to even know of their continued existence?

“If you want a task force, you need soldiers,” Rick protested, though he was careful to keep his voice neutral. “Not criminals. You need discipline and training to create an effective task force and that is not something any criminal possesses, least of all the ones in here.”

“Usually, I would agree with you. But when Superman died, the world changed. More and more criminals have been crawling out of the woodwork and so have more metahumans. Superman’s death may have inspired law-abiding citizens, but it also means that criminals have nothing to fear. So, I am creating something for them to fear. Right now, criminals fear each other more than they fear us, and we need people to combat these new threats. The solution is metahumans who are expendable and capable – the inmates here at Belle Reve.”

Waller dug around in a cabinet, withdrew several hefty files and dropped them onto the desk before Rick.

“Floyd Lawton – an immoral assassin for hire who never misses his target. Harley Quinn – crazy and formidable with superhuman strength and agility. George Harkness – a criminal with a startling intellect and innate ability with several weapons. Chato Santana – can summon fire. Waylon Jones – cannibal and mutant. Christopher Weiss – tactical grappling expert and mercenary.”

Rick flicked through the files with a practiced eye. These were not the people he would want watching his back in a fight. 

“Of course,” Waller continued, “you’ll be supported by several soldiers to keep the peace between the metahumans and to protect regular citizens. Your main backup will be Mrs. Yamashiro, who will be arriving shortly from her last mission. As you know, she has extensive experience with metahumans and you two have proved an invaluable team in the past.”

Rick moved his own file without bothering to look inside. The last file glared up at him. Written in black pen were the words “Enchantress/June Moone”. Rick felt his blood run cold.

“Dr. Moone will also be joining Task Force X, or rather the metahuman inhabiting her body is expected to become an active member,” Waller said, watching Rick with sharp eyes.

“No.” Rick’s voice sounded strong and his heartrate slowed, the same way it did before he pulled the trigger on his sniper rifle. “June isn’t part of this. She’s not a criminal.”

“Dr. Moone may not be a criminal, but the Enchantress certainly is and she has committed centuries of atrocities.”

“Hasn’t June been through enough? Having that demon inside of her is enough for anyone. I found her sitting in a tub of muck and dirt with a bowl of blood in her hands, for God’s sake.” Rick didn’t mean to let that last bit slip out, and Waller raised an eyebrow at his outburst, but didn’t mention it.

“Do you really think Dr. Moone is that weak? Perhaps allowing you to protect her from the Enchantress isn’t enough and she ought to be brought back in for quarantine?”

The blood began pounding behind Rick’s eyes. He could look a man in the eye and pull the trigger without feeling a thing, but the thought of June forced back into solitary quarantine made something in him rage. Rick had spent years in the military learning to control his emotions, but the steel mask was slipping.

“She survived having her mind and body invaded by a demon for months and fought back better than anyone else could have! Of course, she’s strong!”

Waller leaned back and Rick realized he’d fallen into her trap. “Then Dr. Moone is strong enough to be a member of Task Force X. And maybe her sense of justice will rub off on the more unsavory characters.”

“She won’t be harmed by the other members,” Waller continued. “I will be implanting a nano-explosive into each of the members in case of an uprising.”

“But not in June?” Rick asked. If June was going to be forced into this, he would make sure she wouldn’t be treated like a criminal.

Waller paused, her lips pursed.

“But not in June,” Rick insisted.

“Yes, Colonel Flag. I will inform the surgeons that a nano-explosive will not be implanted into Dr. Moone.”

Rick stared at Waller, but her eyes were unreadable. He had known this woman for years and she was merciless and pragmatic, but she got things done. And her missions were always successful. Even so, something in Rick rebelled against June being put into the line of fire. He had chosen to be a soldier and fight for his country. June had not. She had been forced into this.

Rick’s fingers curled around where his pistol grip usually was, his fist clenched so hard he was certain his nails were digging holes into his palms. But his voice was steady. He was a soldier. Always steady. Always prepared. Ready to do whatever it takes to succeed in the mission and protect his comrades.

“I could just end your task force right now. It would never see the light of day. I’ve got friends high up the food chain too, Waller. Friends that won’t like letting criminals loose on the country.”

Waller’s eyes flashed, and Rick knew he’d gone too far. Insubordination. But then a thin smile spread across Waller’s lips and Rick knew he’d been beat.

“You may have friends, Colonel Flag, but I have the Enchantress’s heart. Dr. Moone and the Enchantress are of one body, so I could have Dr. Moone locked up and throw away the key without so much as a second thought. And she would have no choice in the matter. I hold the Enchantress’s heart and that is the only reason I am allowing her freedom, but I can take that away as easily as I granted it. Do not mistake my informing you of the creation of Task Force X and Dr. Moone’s participation in it as asking for advice. It is an order, soldier.

“Now,” Waller steepled her fingers again, her eyes never leaving Rick’s, “Dr. Moone does not have the option of participating, but as a soldier, you do. But, you _will _lead this task force.”

“Why?” Rick asked, his mind spinning. Maybe he could escape with June – leave the country to somewhere safer. But Waller had the Enchantress’s heart.

“You will lead this task force because of your promise to Dr. Moone that if the Enchantress ever took full control and threatened people’s lives…that you would stop her. By any means necessary.”

Rick froze. How did Waller know about that? June had forced him to make that promise after their first night together in the tiny hotel room outside Midway city.

Taking a deep breath, Rick matched Waller’s intense gaze with his own. “You’re ruthless, Waller. You know it and I know it and soon the government will know it too. It’s one of the things I admire about you, but if that ruthlessness every unnecessarily endangers June on these missions…”

Rick let the threat hang in the air, but it knew it was empty. Waller had the Enchantress’s heart and June’s life with it. As long as she had that, she would have June.

And Rick would do anything for June.


	10. Deadshot - Two Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only two things to do in Belle Reve Penitentiary - exercise and remember. But Deadshot was done with exercise. So he remembered his daughters eyes as she looked down the barrel of his gun that fateful Christmas day.

Floyd Lawton didn’t usually dream. But that night he dreamed of his daughter holding his hand, smiling up at him. Then the mask went on and his vision went red and his daughter was gone. All that was left was the weight of the trigger under his finger and his heart beating in his chest.

He woke covered in sweat, his hand scrabbling at his wrists where his guns should be. But they weren’t there anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. Floyd stared up at the ceiling, watching the mold slowly grow from one end of his cell to the other. The grey walls and dim lighting made the cell feel surreal, as though this was the dream. But the creaking of the punching bag chain was too loud and the smell of mildew too strong for this not to be real.

Floyd crossed his arms, willing his heart to slow and letting his mind wander back through his memories. There wasn’t much to do other than exercise and remember in the cell and there was only so much exercise he could do. So, he was left with remembering. He’d been thinking about the cat a lot lately. It had been a ferocious tabby, a stray that wandered the streets around Floyd’s neighbourhood, yowling and snapping at anyone who came close. It had been an asshole to Floyd too, scratching and biting at him any chance it got. But Floyd loved that asshole cat and would feed it scraps from his grandma’s table though he tempted a beating every time. There had been one especially cold winter and Floyd hadn’t seen the cat around for a few days and he was getting worried. The cat had the spirit of a demon, but it was getting old and its fur was thinning. So, when Floyd finally saw it slinking between fence posts one evening, he decided to follow it. Maybe he would be able to deliver food or blankets to the cat’s den. He followed the cat through the streets and over fences, leaving familiar streets and reaching the edge of the rich people neighbourhood. The neighbourhood that grandma warned him against going into after dark. Rick folks didn’t like little black kids running around, messing with their perfect lawns, she would say. Floyd didn’t think it was their lawns they were worried about – at least that’s what he’d gleaned from overhearing some of the older boys talk.

The sun hadn’t set quite yet, so Floyd followed the cat a little further. He followed it to the edge of a red picket fence and watched the cat jump happily down onto the manicured lawn and saunter to a glass door around the side of the house. The cat yowled and scratched at the door until a hand came into view and slid the door open. The cat disappeared inside.

Floyd didn’t know what to think, but he felt weirdly numb as he went back home, his breath misting the air around him as the sun set and the temperature dropped.

The next morning, after sunrise, Floyd went back to that large house with it’s perfect paint and glass doors and watched the cat yowling to be let outside. The hand appeared, the door opened, the cat stepped outside, the door slid closed. Then the yowling and the scratching started up again. Again, the hand appeared, the door slid open and the cat walked over the threshold. Floyd watched this repeat a few times, the cat yowling to be on the other side of the door. Eventually, the door opened one last time, the cat was ushered outside, and the door didn’t open again. The cat yowled and scratched, but eventually wandered off when it realized the door wouldn’t open.

The cat saw Floyd standing at the fence, flicked its tail and pointedly walked off in the other direction, still yowling. Floyd watched the cat wander off, confused. He didn’t understand why the cat couldn’t decide to stay on one side of the door. It seemed like the moment it made a decision, it wanted to go back. As a boy, Floyd knew which side of the door he would choose. The side with glittering cutlery and white carpets and centralized heating.

But as a man, Floyd was coming to understand the cat. He understood the life of wanting to go to the other side of the door. It didn’t really matter whether it led inside or out.

He felt that urge every time he held his little girl in his arms or helped her with her homework or cooked her dinner. He would listen to her chatter away, her voice soft and light. But all he could think about was the feeling of a gun in his hand and his scope resting comfortably against his cheek. It felt like he could never truly be there with his daughter, his mind clouded with thoughts of the next unsuspecting target.

But when he climbed rooftops alone, the mask snug across his face and his gauntlet guns strapped into place – all he could see was his daughters smile. It used to be, before he knew he had a daughter, that the exhilaration he felt when he put on the mask would block out everything else. But now his daughter’s clever eyes and bright smile broke through.

He’d never loved anything until then, he supposed. Never loved anything until he walked into that tiny apartment and looked down at the little girl sitting on the floor in her puffy diaper. She’d been a surprise and Floyd had never liked surprises, but this was different. A child. _His_ child. Michelle had called him almost three years after they separated, telling him he had a child, a daughter named Zoe. Zoe Torres, she had said, because she wouldn’t give her daughter the surname of a killer, even if that killer was her daddy. So, he’d gone to visit her, walked into that apartment they used to share and laid eyes on his daughter. And then everything changed. He loved someone now, had someone to protect.

But he kept putting the mask back on. The mask would go on and he would go back to that unfeeling unloving assassin. He had seen his daughter and all he wanted to do was scoop her up and be the best father anyone ever had. But he kept putting the mask back on. Seven years passed and he saw his daughter whenever he could, weekends mostly. More often once Michelle started dating Darnell and wanted more evenings free. But between each visit, Floyd would put the mask back on. He hadn’t been able to decide which side of the door he wanted to be on – the father or the assassin. And then the decision had been taken away from him.

He’d had two lives – two loves – and they had both been taken away from him in one fell swoop. Taken away by Batman.

Floyd turned over on the cot, closing his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to stare up at the grimy ceiling anymore. Blinding snow and lights flashed before his eyes and he remembered the last time he had seen his daughter.

It had been Christmas. Flakes of snow were falling around them as they wandered the streets of Gotham. Zoe held onto his hand; her other arm wrapped protectively around a gift she had refused to show him. She’d even insisted on buying it with her own money. She’d screwed up her face when he offered to pay and said he wasn’t allowed to pay for his own gift. So, they walked down the street, hand in hand, bags of presents hanging from their arms. He’d asked her to live with him. God, he’d almost forgotten about that. Floyd didn’t know why he’d asked. He knew Michelle would never let her and he didn’t know how he would handle the melding of his two lives. She’d given him that look she got from her momma that said he was being crazy and told him in that soft voice that she couldn’t.

“Momma says I can’t come live with you because you kill people.”

And his blood had gone cold and his tongue had tripped over itself as he tried to tell her that was a lie, he didn’t _kill _people.

“It’s okay,” she said and smiled up at him. Her black hair glistened with melting snowflakes. “I know you do bad things. Don’t worry, I still love you.”

And she’d hugged him. He could still feel her arms wrapped around him, surprisingly strong. He’d tried to draw from her strength and love right then, because he knew that she was a child, but an adult could never love a man who chose being an assassin over being a father. And she would grow up one day and look at him through adult eyes.

Floyd didn’t know how long ago it had been since that Christmas day. Since he’d seen his daughters face. The only way to judge the passing of time down in the pit of Belle Reve Penitentiary was his own sleep cycle. It might have been six months. It might have been a year.

Less than a year, Floyd thought.

A while back, Griggs had played an April Fool’s prank by yanking him from his cell in the middle of the night, strapping him to a gurney and burning all the letters he had promised to send to Zoe. Floyd wouldn’t forget that and if he ever got his hands on a gun, he knew who his next target was. He could probably get paid for it too; someone out there would want a bastard like Griggs dead.

But, if that had been April, maybe Christmas was coming soon. His daughter alone for Christmas without her daddy. Her first Christmas without him there since she was two years old and he hadn’t even known she existed. But Michelle and Darnell would be there, pretending they were a family.

But this Christmas would still be better than last years. Last Christmas, the day he had been arrested, Zoe had looked down the barrel of her father’s gun. He could still remember his finger almost pressing down on the hairpin trigger, his eyes focused on the dark figure behind her.

Batman had come out of nowhere, dropping from the rooftops like the animal he was named after. Floyd didn’t know how Batman knew he was there. How Batman even knew what he looked like without his mask. But none of that matter now, because he grabbed Floyd by the shoulder, telling him he didn’t want to do this in front of his daughter. His daughter.

Floyd had got one shot off, bouncing off whatever body armour Batman wore. Punches were thrown, but he didn’t remember how many. He found himself rolling away, landing in a crouch and drew his gun. The one he always kept hidden under his coat, even when he was with his daughter. He pointed the gun right at Batman’s eye, where nothing could protect him. Batman would be dead in less than a second because Floyd never missed. He _never _missed.

Then the gun wasn’t pointed at Batman anymore, but at his own daughter. Zoe had stepped between them, staring down the barrel of the gun. It almost broke him, the look in his daughter’s eye. She was seeing the assassin for the first time instead of her daddy. She saw the assassin and her expression changed. Zoe looked cold then, and desperate, and for a moment Floyd saw himself reflected in his daughter’s face. But not the ‘him’ that was a good and loving father. It was the ‘him’ that killed for money because he was good at it, because he _liked_ it. The defiance in his daughter’s jaw and the steel in her eyes reminded him of Deadshot. And she was begging him. Begging him not to shoot her hero. Because daddy wasn’t her hero. Oh no, daddy killed heroes.

That was what made him lower the gun, in the end. That look in her eyes. He could have just moved Zoe out of the way, shielded her behind him.

But something in Floyd knew that if he pulled the trigger and shot Batman, his daughter would start down the same path he had taken. The path towards guns and blood and Deadshot. That wasn’t a path he wanted for her. It was too hard and merciless, and Zoe was a child, soft and sweet. That path would either break her or harden her to stone. The same way it had with him. A stone man with a dead heart. Deadshot.

But he wouldn’t let that happen. He was going to give his daughter a future – the best he could provide – whether he was part of it or not. So he put the gun down and held her close as the police cruisers pulled into the alleyway.

As Floyd lay in his cell, he repeated the words she had whispered to him.

“I love you, daddy. I love you.”


End file.
